Sunday Airing

      Such a pleasant Sabbath morning
     
      All except the circumstance

      That a boy of twelve, like I was,

      Had to wear his Sunday pants

          For ‘twas family tradition

         That we stand, all gloved and brushed,

         Waiting for our dear old Aunty

         In a mood both tense and hushed.

      She was one to set the clock by

      On the weekly day of grace,

      Yet there was no sign of hurry

      On her stern but lovely face.

Her team of bays were handsome

        And the buggy shone like new.

        The seats were leather covered

        They were dyed a royal blue.

      Aunt Penelope was regal,

      And her wealth was regal, too.

      There were always stares and whispers,

      As we filled the family pew.

        The preacher was so eloquent

        That he with sonorous tone,

        Implored us all to raise ourselves

        Above mere flesh and bone.

      The sermon ended finally.

      Blessed were those who’d sinned.

      But as we kneeled for final prayer,

      Aunt Penelope broke wind!

The silence was tremendous;

        So quietly there and then.

        The preacher closed his rounded eyes

        And proclaimed the last “Amen!”

      Procedure changed quite drastically,

      For since that fateful day,

      We bow our heads in calm repose

      And no longer kneel to pray.

Claude Cassady