Pastor Grump

By Steve Brown

Twenty-five years in Vermont,
The pulpit, his preaching a font,
He sounded and pounded,
His people he grounded,
Yet, often he felt it a daunt.

Reformed his theology was,
Sometimes it created a buzz,
But his convictions were firm,
He never did squirm,
On that peach there was never fuzz.

Once he bought Margaret a farm,
What, thought he, be the harm?
To the barn he could duck,
To work in the muck,
The chickens would love his charm.

Then came the goats and the dogs,
He even considered some hogs.
One thing seems sure,
He thinks best in manure.
His mind to unclog.

Next, he grew out his beard,
It caused him to act slightly weird.
He thought he was Miller,
With all that face filler.
In church, the people, they feared.

On his chin they saw that big clump,
And it hit them just like a thump.
He went back to the past,
His persona to cast,
So, some call him Pastor Grump.

Today, friends gather to say,
"Thanks for your work in the Way."
You've been faithful and true,
To the Lord and the pew.
Together we'll meet on that Day.

So, here is the end of the thing,
The good Reverend a laugh does bring.
To some he seems stern,
But his heart does yearn,
That your soul unto God might sing.




Rev. Floyd McIntyre



Steve Brown is President of Berkshire Institute for Christian
Studies and a past target of Rev. McIntyre's own limerick writing.


Webspace courtesy of North School Preservation Society, Inc.