My words are high above my deeds,
like butterflies above the weeds;
they sail on thermals of resolve,
while here below my acts dissolve.
I never will bad language use,
until I really blow a fuse.
I'll give lots more to charity,
then suffer from austerity.
More frequent prayers I vow anew,
but sleep in late and cliches spew.
My aspirations, like a kite,
so often now fly out of sight.
I hope the Lord will think it droll,
and not foreclose upon my soul.
Please help me prudent words prepare,
and stop producing dry hot air!
No comments:
Post a Comment