Old Man Brxb

A place for my poems

The High Priests Social

The High Priests Social
By J. Carl Brooksby

Every November, since I can remember
A social is held in the stake.
It’s for the High Priests, there’s always a feast,
Right down to the ice cream and cake.

I’ll never forget one year that we met
For the usual ham and green beans.
The sermons were boring, many were snoring,
And some were beginning to lean.

Then one man fell dead, he’d lit on his head
When he fell from his chair in his sleep.
The program was stalled, nine, one, one was called,
The women were starting to weep.

The medics came through, a punctual crew,
But they just stood there, shaking their head.
They searched high and low, they looked to and fro,
But they couldn’t tell which man was dead.

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