The Annual Conference Poem

As I ready myself for a weekend in Muncie, I couldn't help but wax a bit poetic in my expectations of annual conference.

The Annual Conference Poem

It's a frightening matter

When all clergy gather

Inside a confined space like a fence,

For it's then you can tell

How bad they all smell

When it's time for their conference.

Yes, out there in the world,

With their faith flags unfurled

Their preaching might actually make sense.

But cooped up one room

They're a package of doom

When they come to their conference.

Oh, some clergy for sure

Like to sit and demure

And lobby with women and gents

On one measure or other

(But really, why bother?)

It's only a conference.

And others, like me,

Look forward to tea,

And dreaming of other weeks hence

When the final prayer's said

And I'll be in bed

With my wife after conference.

And yes friends, I know,

Some consider it low

That I hold this up as defense,

But the fact still remains

There are far greater gains

To be made after conference.

But in case you are one

Who has lots of fun

I hope that you won't take offense

When I mention how lame

It all seems (and the same)

When we gather for conference.

As I round out the score

I intend not to bore

When I tell you it's no great suspense,

That I shed not a tear

After Muncie each year

When I drive home from conference.