Pray Thee, Pastor Poem by Mauta Thuranira Peter

I know you won't take it kindly,
If I interrupt you with my brawl
Seasoned, alcohol accustomed tongue.
But oh pastor, before you lay your
Hands upon my sobriety deficient head,
Give a chance to your newest recruit,
To bear open his reservations.
Pray thee pastor, I might become worse than I am!

You say it is the devils of my past,
Which to thee so speaketh,
You could never be more wrong man of God,
I speak with my own afflicted tongue,
And order you now to listen to me!
I would love your Ironed Gucci suits,
Your baby like face, hands softer than a baby's bottom,
But pray thee pastor, one more verse bereft of rhyme,
Then you continue with your salvation rituals.

If I am no longer tipsy, who will keep Kinyonga bar
Owner safe from my wrath for the future that I had?
If I regain my sobriety, clear head and sharp brain,
Who will cushion you from the hell I will raise,
For all my nieces you have ruined?
When I no longer stagger, the Bible with which you recklessly
Plow both your land and the neighbors', will come to naught!
If I no longer drink, Sharon Rosemary, Wambu Yvonne Michelle,
And other barmaids whose phony names I cannot pronounce,
To which hole will they hide, for illegally owning my wallets?
Which were heavier than the fragrance of cheap perfumes they wore?
PRAY THEE PASTOR, NOW THAT I AM ONE OF YOU,
LET EVERYONE WATCH HIS BACK!