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?