Halt, driver! You would leave Him behind
if I didn’t make mention of the source
of your forgiveness. Remind what’s defined
as a sinner, and go to Him, of course,
when the world gets you down. “I’ll be fine
without your help,” but the clock is ticking,
and your walking, friend, a very fine line.
You act like you know where you’re going,
but there is no direction beyond the grave,
at least not for this mortal body,
which ruins, already, the life we stave,
imagining, upon reflection, that we’re free
to put off sobriety another day—
unable to reconcile with another life,
thinking little of the debts we must pay,
if, for example, we should lose our wife,
and find ourselves without validation
from a world that we denied our eyes
when we chose to put off His estimation—
happiness beyond our earthly lies,
staked on something destructible and grim.
But listen to me—a negative Nancy,
here to rain on that which denies Him,
since, after all, i belong to his decree—
perhaps, for some, a little prematurely,
but i count my chickens, love, as they hatch,
such that you needn’t look after me,
when, for starters, you’re off to dispatch
a bottle of wine, or a bad joke, perhaps,
bent on making mountains out of molehills.
I think, a little, of everyday mishaps,
the kind that chase down an army of pills,
after the party, friend, has come to an end.
But look at me—a negative Nancy,
determined to cork the fun you’d send
my way, if, for example, you were me,
and you thought only of yourself. Back down,
i say, before i, myself, should give in,
and preach, like a prophet, to the town,
without respect for the choice you’d win,
if you were ten years younger. Or twenty.
So i keep my prophecy to my rhyme—
there’s no changing a slave to stupidity,
especially, do tell, when He’s out of time.