Every week we fill our church ward with joy while we write another cheque to our entrepreneurial Freud.
So strike me down with foreign tongues and anointing oil like an iron lung.
It doesn't matter if our soul was fake when St. Peter's got his foot in the gate...
Everyone here's religious and depressed but won't drill another hole until the tables have been upset.
I've been meaning to tell you the bad taste you acquired over time was an unfortunate product of my pessimistic mind.
And I can't follow this church through fear and mindless thought but that doesn't mean there's no God.