Well now, what’s it to be, Lord? Another widow? How many has it been? Six? Twelve? I disremember. You say the word, Lord, I’m on my way…. You always send me money to go forth and preach your Word. The widow with a little wad of bills hid away in a sugar bowl. Lord, I am tired. Sometimes I wonder if you really understand. Not that You mind the killin’s. Your Book is full of killin’s. But there are things you do hate, Lord: perfume-smellin’ things, lacy things, things with curly hair. Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens. Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens. Brown paper packages tied up with strings. These are a few of my favorite things.
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