Outside the little country church
Stood Maudie with her friends,
Old ladies, clucking 'round her like
A gossiping of hens.
“I think it’s just a crime,” she sighed,
“That Kathryn’s in the choir.
The ones who get the punishment
Are those who stand beside her.
She sounds just like an old foghorn
That guides lost ships to shore,
Except her voice is so off-key,
There’s none would seek to moor.
The congregation’s punished, too,
By her discordant voice.
They’d like to see her gone, I’m sure,
Were they to have the choice.”
The ladies nodded their assent,
Four bobbing heads of gray,
There wasn’t one who’d disagree,
With what she’d had to say.
Then round the corner came a lass,
Of maybe six or seven.
“You better change your ways,” said she,
“Or you won’t go to heaven.
For what you said 'bout my grandma,
That seems to me a crime,
And you’ll be punished ‘you know where ’
For all the rest of time.”
She flounced away, and Maudie said,
“The truth is never wrong.
I do not lie; it is a crime
How Kathryn sings a song.”
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