Call It a Terminal Illness
Heartsick about ER's last episode
I'm just sick. I'm feeling awful.
Gone's my Thursday night routine.
I cannot digest the changes.
I need Dr. Ross or Greene.
County General in Chicago
has been home for fifteen years.
Guess it felt like I belonged there
like that Boston bar called Cheers.
ER dealt with more than illness.
There was love and war, you see.
It was true-to-life and gory.
It was shocking, yet PC.
Every race was represented.
There were gays, some handicapped.
Single-parents and the homeless
Those quite wealthy. Those who'd snapped.
ER's doctors and its nurses
had a story and a name.
Like the world in which I pastor,
they were marked by dreams and pain.
Every Thursday I made popcorn,
lit a fire, brewed some tea
and then settled back with Wendy
to catch up with family.
But that family now has vanished
and I grieving like they're dead.
There's a lump inside my stomach.
There's a pain inside my head.
It's a terminal-ish illness.
What I loved is dead and gone.
And it's left me cold and clammy.
Come next Thursday, nothing's on.
The Motorcade and The Parade
Obama's reception in London is no Palm Sunday parade
The way our President was hailed
in Londonderry Town,
you'd almost think the Queen should offer
him a throne and crown.
The tabloids heralded Barack
as almost like a God.
But such a claim is poppycock,
ridiculous and odd.
The chants and cheers that greeted
the Obama's motorcade
cannot compare to praise and palms
that marked a grand parade.
Messiah's glory can't be shared
by kings or presidents.
The Kingdom of our coming Christ
will dwarf all governments.