'Twas
Easter Sunday in '59
Dad drove our clan to church
And as we turned off Lincoln Drive
The car did heave and lurch.
The Flygare girls were dressed alike
In aqua polished cotton
Mom and the youngest three felt fine
And the eldest felt quite rotten.
We sat, resplendent, in a row
Taking up one whole pew
The Reverend preached his message
Dad drove our clan to church
And as we turned off Lincoln Drive
The car did heave and lurch.
The Flygare girls were dressed alike
In aqua polished cotton
Mom and the youngest three felt fine
And the eldest felt quite rotten.
We sat, resplendent, in a row
Taking up one whole pew
The Reverend preached his message
When
the warbly solo was through.
After the sermon, Elizabeth
said, "Daddy, I don't feel good."
I stretched out on the carved oak pew
And gripped the gnarly wood.
"Every year at Easter Time"
the final hymn unfurled
Mid-stanza, it was way too late
I knew I soon might hurl.
"Make way!" called Dad through the well-dressed crowd
"Make Way! We have a sick child!"
But, alas, his pleas were all in vain
As out the faithful filed.
Yours truly, yes, so green and ill
Upchucked upon the floor
It covered Lily Brunson's shoes
And splashed upon the door.
The younger girls, disgusted
Did hold their breath and flee
Our parents were quite mortified
And all because of me.
My sisters edged against the doors
As in the back I lay
For surely, I might barf again
As the car did swing and sway.
We made it home, but valiant Dad
Went back to help them clean.
He was a deacon, after all,
And I had made a scene.
Our youngest sister, not yet born
Has surely heard this tale
Yes, to this day, the phrase: "Make Way"
Elicits laughter hale.
The moral of this story
is that rules of social graces
apply, unless you're nauseous
In formal, public places.
So, if you find yourself in church
And feel the urge to heave,
Yes, even if it's Easter,
By God! Get up and leave!
After the sermon, Elizabeth
said, "Daddy, I don't feel good."
I stretched out on the carved oak pew
And gripped the gnarly wood.
"Every year at Easter Time"
the final hymn unfurled
Mid-stanza, it was way too late
I knew I soon might hurl.
"Make way!" called Dad through the well-dressed crowd
"Make Way! We have a sick child!"
But, alas, his pleas were all in vain
As out the faithful filed.
Yours truly, yes, so green and ill
Upchucked upon the floor
It covered Lily Brunson's shoes
And splashed upon the door.
The younger girls, disgusted
Did hold their breath and flee
Our parents were quite mortified
And all because of me.
My sisters edged against the doors
As in the back I lay
For surely, I might barf again
As the car did swing and sway.
We made it home, but valiant Dad
Went back to help them clean.
He was a deacon, after all,
And I had made a scene.
Our youngest sister, not yet born
Has surely heard this tale
Yes, to this day, the phrase: "Make Way"
Elicits laughter hale.
The moral of this story
is that rules of social graces
apply, unless you're nauseous
In formal, public places.
So, if you find yourself in church
And feel the urge to heave,
Yes, even if it's Easter,
By God! Get up and leave!
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