Betwixt

Oh, the organ runs like lantern light
for something out on a wet black night,
or the organ buttons an overcoat
around a sin’s small shivering throat,
and the organ holds its organ lap
like a lullaby till my sin naps.

Then the minister shouts and my sin goes
banister-sliding down his nose;
it tracks in mud, it stomps its feet,
or sits butt-down in his Holy Street,
and if the minister mentions Hell
it leaps like it heard a recess bell.