the church, how she swells
brackets full of ticketholders ready for the lights
and the pews, they buckle under
just like the bishop's bed under the weight of deacons' wives
but she's a handsome prize
and he's a number rise
and a damned good hypnotic
your name, it is a banner
that flies over the most shameful things
like a garage full of guns and dirty magazines
brackish water and cauldrons of gasoline
race-consuming tongues and callow reveling
but you are somewhere in the corners of america
you try and sing your love just how it is
but i swear i'm gonna beat You to it
take that song, pervert it bit by bit
'cause you are just a sunday morning
you're a bullhorn in the street
you're a protest on the asphalt
politician on tv
you're a bell rung by the hour
a curse when we cut our feet
you're a five-word liar's you mean everything to me