All Things Shite And Dutiful
I won't sing for you Lord
It doesn't seem to strike a chord
And it was the organist that snored
He seems equally as bored
I won't own up to knowing the tune
Won't learn the words anytime soon
My religion barks at the moon
Writes songs to make a preacher swoon
I won't swear to you mate
Rather at you, and man's fate
I may be a black horned reprobate
But I'll be warm when I am late
Who writes the stuff you'd have us bear?
Can't be you; as if you'd care
Your son, maybe; beyond repair
See that cross? You put him there
I won't croon, won't even mime
Keep my mouth shut, pass the time
Wondering if it's such the crime
To poke a pair at your paradigm
Well then, Lord, that's all she wrote
Apologies for the odd duff note
This sermon's spent; I'll get my coat
With harmony's halo around my throat...