Angry as the bees
Angry as the chosen twelve
He searches for his keys
Underneath my heavy bedsheets
I have no silver
To buy my field of redemption
Or to hand my body
to the rotting roots and rocks
below
I've still kept my head
He still speaks to me
Through leather seats
He lays down the law
I lay down my wheat
I have not blasphemed
your Holy Ghost
But
that was always something that
other people
did
So who knows?
I still hang my head