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You had a method for testing the fiction
said “God’s not a bad man, but I know you need fixin’
You’re beautiful, you’re underwhelmed, anyway.”
There is a hand in the sky holding flames to your eye
but it’s not hard to tell there’s fresh swell of sighs
on its way to us, expectant, holding sway.
A court of flatterers dolled up in tatters,
I can hardly hear for the sound of their chatter--
the words they say fumble, they lead astray.
Since in the daytime I am soft-spoken and mild,
they’re all convinced I have the soft will of a child
It’s up to you to explain, I must have my way.
See, I’ve got a fine plan for testing the fiction,
God’s a good man when he’s free of restrictions
So trust in me when I say, I will pray.
Talking of sacrament, boy’s got a blessed bent
so he won’t hold me when ma says it’s not prudent--
“It’s not for a girl to say, anyway”
Here’s my hand reaching; I was born a huntress,
Come when I call you, obey when I say undress:
a test for your holiness, here I lay.
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