The War On Faith - FS - The Reverend

By Douglas Duncan
(With apologies to Edgar Allan Poe)

Once upon a midnight dreary, I was channel surfing, eyes all bleary,
Over many a quaint and curious program of TV gore
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly I heard them clapping,
And something stayed my hand from zapping, zapping 'til I heard some more, "
'Tis some preacher man," I muttered, "Rapping there on channel four
Only this and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew weaker, as his voice came through the speaker,
"Sir," said he, "or Madam, truly your indulgence I implore;
But the fact is I was praying when the Spirit came to me saying
That you surely must start paying, paying vows and so much more,
And yes I'm talking to you - Even though you think you're poor
Give to me and you will score."

Back into my bedroom turning, all my soul within me burning,
Now I knew the way out of all the troubles I had before
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something even I can manage;
Let's see then, what my balance is, and this mystery explore,
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore,
'Tis the way for getting more."

Open here I flung my checkbook, and with bated breath I took a look,
And here I had to face what scared me to the core,
But the preacher shouted at me, not a minute stopped or stayed he,
But with the zeal of a prophet he screamed from channel four,
"There is a man in Dallas, you only think you're poor!"
And then he smiled, and nothing more.

Intrigued by how much he needed, and also by the way he pleaded,
"Doubtless," said I, "what he shows us is prosperity's door,
Gleaned from some ancient teacher this quite insightful preacher
Has shown the way to rid us of all the burdens that we bore-
Till we prosper greatly, and our lives are not a chore-
But then he said, "Give me more."

Then I sat engaged in guessing, but each response was more distressing,
From the fool whose fiery eyes now burning into my bosom's core,
"I can't give more," I was whining, "my bank account's declining,"
On the register's last line is the number I can't go o'er,
The bottom line is just two hundred and a score-
But still he said, "Give me more."

Then, methought, it got still deeper, and he asked for something cheaper
"The Seraphim themselves know exactly what you can afford!"
"Mooch!" I cried, "thy God hath lent thee by these angels he hath sent thee Respite
respite from these pleadings!" Yet he ignored
"Cease, oh, cease this endless begging and forget me," I implored.
Quoth the Reverend, "Give me more!"

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!~prophet still, if man or devil!
By those airwaves that surround us - by that box we both adore
Tell this poverty laden soul if, someday I'll see on TBN
A gilded blessing for my seed of two hundred and a score
I claim a rare and radiant SUV, a gold Ford Explorer."
Quoth the Reverend, "Give me more!"

"Be that word our sign of parting, man or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting
Get thee back into the airwaves and the Tube's Plutonian shore!
Leave no re-run as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my penury unbroken-quit the set upon my floor!
Quoth the Reverend, "Give me more!"

And the Reverend, still a flick'ring, still is flick'ring
On the cathode ray tube in Dallas that sits upon my bedroom floor;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is screaming,
And the tube light with him streaming throws his image on the floor;
And my soul from out that image that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted-if I give more.