your sword, my lord
i took a shit on his copy of the book
somewhere between apostles and acts
man, did he give me a dirty look
but i told him to face the facts
saints and angels alive, he said
fuckwit, i replied, you should know
that they're decidedly disco dead
martyrs to the afterglow
he asked me to make it clean
but it was dirty before i got there
told him it's a mark of where i've been
and how it feels to breathe his holy air
i quietly questioned his regal role
while living as loudly as i could
don't you know i'd salve your soul?
rub me up the wrong way, if you would
what say i take you up to heaven?
give you the gilded guided tour?
tried it once when i was about eleven
those church seats made my backside sore
and anyway, i quipped, talking of arses
who'd nail up their only son?
make him the king of foisted farces
is that to be how infanticide's spun?
i don't think you like me very much
i don't see why, when I've done nothing to you
and you've done nothing for me either, as such
my god, you really don't have a clue
with that, he shut his mouth and shop
not that they were ever open at all
keep selling your sweet smelling shit; don't stop
with whom else could i have such a ball?