Silly little wishes,
Fantasies and dreams,
Who but me to make them true?
Or so that way it seems,
Twice a day, a minute spent,
Begging my soul's master,
Oh I could count a thousand prayers,
Without a single answer,
Kneeling down on tender knees,
Beneath the mercy of a rope,
Wishful truth may set me free,
But the cruelest lie is hope,
So of these vacant, mystic promises,
I've grown weary and suspicious,
If I am God then God is dead,
And so are all my wishes.