Sunday Saints

Six days a week,
they lie, cheat and steal.
No kind words they speak,
no love do they feel.
Annoyed by the homeless,
the needy, the poor.
No thanks tho they’ve been blessed,
they always seek more.
But on Sunday morning,
at nine o the clock,
you’ll find them all joining,
the rest of the flock.
With reverent faces,
dressed in their best,
they all take their places,
and sing hymns with zest.
Their love and devotion,
are loudly declared.
Their eyes hold emotion,
their souls are laid bare.
One hour on Sunday
His blessings they seek
then all go their own way
these wolves dressed as sheep