Mom protested and said that the book taught about inclusion.
To which Uncle Maga tore the book in half and said it teaches only delusion.
Uncle Maga slammed the book’s halves on the table, and they smacked,
He then pulled me outside to teach me how a real man should act.
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To which Uncle Maga tore the book in half and said it teaches only delusion.
Uncle Maga slammed the book’s halves on the table, and they smacked,
He then pulled me outside to teach me how a real man should act.
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And then forced my fingers around the trigger, cussing all the while.
The gun was too heavy, and my fingers didn’t fit,
But he wouldn’t let me go until I learned something called “grit.”
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Beer cans at first, then my Mom’s Gnomes and flower pots were part of his recruiting.
At dinner, Uncle Maga insisted that next visit, we’ll go hunting for deer,
Because there was no way he’d let fairy books turn me queer.
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Mom was cooking, and Uncle was a-grumbling.
Uncle Maga was complaining that we’d no real church to go pray,
Meanwhile, Mom put bacon, eggs, and pancakes out on the display.
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While Uncle sipped at his coffee saying our Unitarian Church was the worst thing.
Uncle didn’t believe that God accepted all people for who they are,
But rather, it was biblical exclusions that should set the bar.
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To which Uncle Maga replied, “Because I’m in Jesus’ image, a straight man and white.”
What Uncle said made sense to me,
And it was at that moment I began to rethink my mother’s quality.
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Until Uncle Maga showed up with a twirling football in hand,
With a gruff, firm voice, Uncle Maga started saying,
“Sunday’s meant for praying and playing.
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