No excuses, of course: we must get dressed
If death itself appears at the front door
We would not want to be caught in our ‘jammies
Or in surrender flaked upon the couch
We will wake up to a glad morning hymn
And, for inspection, wash and brush and dress
For even if nobody else sees us, God will
And we must be ready for the Office of Lauds
That God doesn’t care how we’re dressed for prayer
Is a thumping lie (now tuck in your shirt)