Preacher, don`t send me when I die to some big ghetto in the sky where rats eat cats of the leopard type and Sunday brunch is grits and tripe. I`ve known those rats I`ve seen them kill and grits I`ve had would make a hill, or maybe a mountain, so what I need from you on Sunday is a different creed. Preacher, please don`t promise me streets of gold and milk for free. I stopped all milk at four years old and once I`m dead I won`t need gold. I`d call a place pure paradise where families are loyal and strangers are nice, where the music is jazz and the season is fall. Promise me that or nothing at all.SourceThe script ran 0 seconds.
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