My lover's got humour,
she's the giggle at a funeral,
knows everybody's disapproval,
I should've worshipped her sooner.
If the heavens ever did speak,
she's the last true mouthpiece,
Every Sunday's gettin' more bleak,
fresh poison each week.
We were born sick, you heard them say it.
My church offers no absolutes,
she tells me 'Worship in the bedroom',
the only heaven I'll be sent to
is when I'm alone with you.
I was born sick, but I love it,
command me to be well
_ Take me to church,
I'll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies,
I'll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife,
offer me that deathless death, oh good God,
let me give you my life.