Aimee Semple McPherson's cat
Sat on the plush velvet seat of her little gilded throne
Watching as thousands of well-dressed Angelinos
Surged down the aisles in pulsing waves
Intent on gaining seats nearest the altar/stage
The two balconies being for those less committed
To abject adulation of the red-haired matron with the flashing smile
The cat's attendant reached for the gold handled brush
That was the only brush that ever touched the long white fur
As gently as a butterfly landing on a bloom
The bristles groom the leading lady's favored pet
Angelus Temple was packed on this warm Sunday Evening
Men and women who couldn't find seats
Sit or stand on the steps of the aisles that lead to redemption
The orchestra plays, the chorus sings
Then the Sister takes up her microphone
She greets everyone in the massive domed temple
And all the people tuned in to the wireless
The cat licks a paw and purrs contently
As a performer takes center and recites a poem
Followed by a musician who charms the crowd for a short spell
The director of the vaudevillian entertainment
Keeps the acts moving apace
Can't have the gathered masses growing restless
Before the sister has a chance to wax evangelically ecstatic
The cat however, cannot stifle a yawn
Despite her mistresses loud exhortations to repent
For the sins of the Jazz age
Without a glance of acknowledgement
To the gathered saints and sinners
The cat curled it's body into a comfortable comma
Head tucked in for an afternoon nap
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