Joshua Judges Ruth

I’m just a middle-aged woman, standing here to remind you that Lyle Lovett wrote an entire song, with full choir backup, about how the Sunday preacher had talked enough because there was some good Southern food to be eaten and everyone in the congregation was HANGRY. God bless, there’s cornbread and greens, God understands.

The album has the delightful name of Joshua Judges Ruth, and if you don’t get that play on words, it’s okay, just see me after class privately. I’ve explained it before to a friend, no big deal.

Yes, I am taking a breather from all-day writing today, because verily my body did crash. I had this on my own scorecard. Also, Mr. Bob Ford is doing his magic with what I have written so far on our horror project, but that isn’t why. I did too much, and we all saw that coming. I will write and work on the podcast later this evening, because of course I will. Verily I am also stubborn.

I would normally, after calling this modern poetry—or frankly, something out of Mark Twain, yeah, I said it—I would share the lyrics here. But there are a couple of jokes in this delightful folk music that are so sweet that I want you to hear them for the first time.

Oh look, a live version! More choir!

Resting now. Promise.