SUNDAY MORNING


When I was a kid we always arrived at church late,
It wasn't any different on the best-remembered date,

My brother and I had a '34 Ford and every tire was shot,
How long they'd last was not a thing we ever gave much thought,

Seventeen-inch tires were unavailable anyway,
We should have put on sixteen-inch wheels from a slightly later day,

Still we ran those 17's till the cords were showing thru
On the Sunday in question, it seems the end was overdue,

We quietly pulled up right in front of the old familiar church,
There were hardly any brakes at all, so never a chance of a lurch,

Just as we rolled to a stop in front of the church the right front blew,
We couldn't have timed it better so all the congregation knew

Our family was arriving, as usual, thirty minutes late,
It must have been like a firecracker to the one with the offering plate,

Still we went into church that day as if nothing unusual had happened,
A little red-faced and with our spirits a tiny bit dampened.

                                                        by D. Edgar Murray