You can't make this stuff up
My mother's best friend from her WAC days in WW 2 was a dear, sweet Episcopalian lady, who was married to an Air Force guy stationed at Awful Air Force Base in Oh-My-God, Nebraska. I met her once. She came to visit when I was in high school.
It didn't take long before Wally, as she was called (short for Wallis, I think), to tell me of her childhood visits to her Baptist grandmother down south. There's when she learned what was, forever after, her favorite hymn, sung to the tune of "At The Cross" (ready?):
At the bar, at the bar, where I smoked my first cigar,
and the money in my pockets rolled away:
it was there by chance that I tore my Sunday pants,
and now I have to wear them ev'ry day.