Sin-O-Meter

In the parish of St. Millzeter
Lived one pastor named Brother Peter
Holier he thought than a fasting skeeter
Glad to be Millzeter's leader

Each Sunday morn he'd preach the word
"From sin and folly, y'all must turn!"
"And if you don't you'll surely burn!"
"A man who sins is quite absurd!"

To better help those in Millzeter
He created a new Sin-O-Meter
To separate those in Millzeter
The "Good" from liars, thieves, and cheaters

Each person wore upon their head
A Sin-O-Meter like Peter said
So all could see the sins of Ted,
Bill and John and Rose and Jed

So in the town of St. Millzeter
The one whose leader was Brother Peter
Where everyone wore a Sin-O-Meter
The town now full of thieves and cheaters

For the Sin-O-Meters blinked and blinked
Heads hung low all through the streets
All were filled up with deceit
Millzeter was a town defeated

On Sunday morn the church was filled
They beat their breasts, emotions spilled
Brother Peter smiled - he was quite thrilled
His Sin-O-Meter still showed nil

But little Jimmy gave out a shout
He noticed Peter's batteries out
He gave his own, that little sprout
And Peter's Meter turned about

All eyes up front towards Peter's head
His hands were white, his face was red
His Sin-O-Meter quickly spread
From zero and white to black instead

And then Granny Nadle dropped her teeth
They fell right down beside her feet
She leaned on over and tried to reach
And flashed her bloomers in front of preacher

With skirts flung up and bloomers shown
Pete's Sin-O-Meter then exploded
He ran out the church and down the road
And passed the cross and never slowed

Christmas Parade

At the Christmas parade in the town of Holly Pond,
The only thing I really need is one small magic wand,
To clear a path in front of me like Moses and the sea,
And have a perfect view of things that slowly pass by me.
The boys are cheering, the men are hooting, and I can't see a thing,
But rears, and backs, and pockets, and dirty ol' blue jeans.
No one will scoot or slide or share the sidewalk right up front,
I'm in the back with strollers and bags, I feel just like a runt.
From all the yells and all the hoots I know who's now advancing;
It's the buxom, jiggly, scantily dressed nine ladies dancing.
The wives are poking all the men and covering up their eyes;
The young 'ens pupils are dilated, their innocence compromised.
I feel like Zacchaeus without a tree with Jesus walking past,
And all I see is Granny's rumpus, I think she may have gas.
Don't want no teeth or fancy boots or toys nor a football,
All I want this year for Christmas is to grow 'bout six feet tall.