In the basement of the church, with the casseroles a-coolin’,
If find myself at peace with life and love and God – no foolin’!
These ain’t your fancy ragouts, cassoulets or French pate;
Most are made with green beans and a bit o’ Frito-Lay.
The smells are rather homey, mixed with janitor supplies,
And I bet the ladies also brung a dozen or so pies.
My doctor says I’ve got to watch my choices of food group;
But how can I ignore the taste of cream of mushroom soup?
The only salads that I see are frog-eye and coleslaw,
The only fruit are maraschinos on an iced bear claw.
I love these suppers at the church, and I’ll have seconds, please,
Especially when I come to the homemade mac and cheese!
Tonight I may regret my choice to lick up all the crumbs,
When I’m searching high and low for half a dozen Tums.
But I cannot desert my church for restaurant food, you betcha –
Even if it means they carry me out on a stretcha!

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