Habitual Ritual

Their presence felt…from Bible Belt
To both American shores
They come to praise
On most Sundays
Like drunks… through swinging doors

The week’s been long…and now its time
For feet’s to hit the floor
To cleanse themselves of “cultural grime”
On most Sundays evermore
Just try… not to be poor

They clamor in and jockey ‘round
Because the Lord they do adore
The Preacher roar’s, his fist doth pound
On most Sundays evermore
To beggars… close the doors

The sermon comes from up above
With rock music, lights and more
A dispatch of success, not love
On most Sundays evermore
Wealth is… now God’s lore

Concern for the penurious has now taken a switch
For God’s help they once did implore
The new motivation is how to get rich
On most Sundays evermore
It’s avaricious… right down to its core

Now they flock to the Megachurch in SUV’s and mini-vans
Not to end things once deplored
But the “washing” of cupidic hands
On most Sundays evermore
Is God…nothing more than bankroll whore?