To Andrew

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
My Uncle Andrew Troublefield would get drunk then he would sometimes start to preach and sing gospel music afterward. This is my homage to him.

Submitted: November 18, 2009

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Submitted: November 18, 2009

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Pharaoh’s down in Newark, he’s got a bottle in his hand.

He’s spewing out his words of wisdom that no one understands.

His garments, they are in shreds, and he reeks the smell of wine.

He starts to preach the gospel, and then begins to cry.

He claims to be a prophet, wherever he may roam.

But those of us that hear him wail wish he’d just go home.



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