ESCAPE
Fleeing from Mrs. McGonigle, Mr. Smith Took refuge in a public telephone booth, Whence he rang, as he always did, forthwith, The Gospel Tabernacle, home of Truth.
Mrs. McGonigle, meanwhile, searched the streets, Asking herself, as she did so, why she did. His life with her, she knew, was a nest of sweets From which he beat it, now and again, and hid.
And every time he ended up on his knees Among his burning friends at Gospel Hall, Who put his soul through fire, and gave it ease With balm from the Apostles, especially Paul. But Mrs. McGonigle always found him out Sooner or later, and motherly gathered him in.
Truly a man is never lonely here, And least of all at the moment of wild escape In the telephone booth : a moment of bliss and fear Between this world and the next, between fire and rape.
GEORGE JOHNSTON
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