DENIM
Lord Greystoke, long lost, from the jungle they would save.
Dressed him up, after bathing, and giving him a shave.
Now, look at him! A refined, proper, dandy English gentleman!
In fear they watched, him ripping off his shirt, roaring, “Me Tarzan!”
Everyone feared the "Long-Hair", muscles rippling, Samson,
his name.
Mowing down enemies with the jawbone of an ass was his game.
But, poking out the eyes of the betrayed, love-lost, hog-tied
skinhead,
Ass-like, they forced him to turn their mill, now just the walking
dead.
A voice out in the wilderness, a prophet eating locusts and honey,
The hand of God was moving John, not some position nor filthy money.
In his robe of scruffy camel hair, he called them a “brood of snakes”!
“Repent, you hypocrites! The axe is coming! Beware the fiery lake!”
Young William watched as the English stole their family land.
Then his young eyes witnessed, murdered, the chiefs of the clan.
All of the clans of the highlanders behind him to the battles did
come.
Another, the Bruce, fought on; but he, betrayed, groaned his last
words – “freedom!”
Unlike Boromir, still in life, I do vow – I will follow You, my
Brother... My Captain... My King.
Forever, I gladly and humbly do bow; My all is for You; I withhold not
a thing,
For You, King Jesus, ever would I fight, nothing held back, going to
the wall!
But, only You, take me to the doorpost, and forever seal my fate, with
Your hammer and awl.
It seems to me that all my heroes have always worn denim:
Cowboys and old millwrights – wow, doncha wanna be them!
No flip-flops ever did fit their feet; just give them their boots.
Nothing but scorn for neck ties; only "lawyers" and
"bankers" wear suits.
