Worship,

You will worship

At the cemetery cross of a mother

Who couldn't spare you a tear

Even if you were her own.


Worship,

Worship,


You will hang yourself

From the cross

& Not even God

Or Bohumil himself

Could spare a tear

For one as small as you.


Worship,

Worship,


The razor blades you've sewn

Inside your sleeves

Will be forgotten

Till the next bitter winter

Will make your blood drip

And fall


Worship

You must worship

Till the bleeding stops

Till your heart beats slowly

Worship

Till they tell you

You aren't as pure as you should be

Worship

And admit that maybe

You're inclined to tragedy