Balletic slim with gently nubile curves
And sweetly graced extensions of long limbs—
They sway, step, bend to syncopated hymns.
Their mothers beam. How well, they think, dance serves
God’s glory (and their own) in finer style
Than old processions jumbled full of tots,
White-veiled and bumptious, tasting nuns’ DO NOTs,
Surging off center down the middle aisle.
Lord, as You look on such eclectic prayer,
Such very now liturgic elegance
With its proponents all quite blind to where
It self-creates less happy circumstance,
Hold tight and tenderly within Your care
Little fat girls who won’t be asked to dance.
Dear Reader,
Can I be direct with you?
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