OK, this next one is kind of a different sort of scripture.
This is a poem driven by its title, which
comes from a sort of unfortunate message on a church placard.
It's called "Don't Let Worries Kill You, let the Church Help."
[LAUGHTER] So, "Don't Let Worries Kill You,
Let the Church Help."
"Diviner of blackjack, of blowgun,
of cleaver and repeater, father of blunderbuss,
of canon, of .44 and heater, maker of quarter staffs
and breechloaders, of brickbats and buzz bomb,
landlord of Long Toms, of scimitars,
we proffer you a psalm.
Blessed is the man whose hopes exceed his reach.
Blessed is the woman who mixes gin and bleach.
Blessed is the child who feels that he can fly.
Blessed is the steeple on which the sparrows die."