So we played our games
in the dug-out graves
Shouting curses at the dirt
'til the Messiah showed his face,
With his soap-stone eyes
and his seaweed beard
and he scolded us so sharply
with his winding river tongue.
It was not my place
to be calling names
'Cause I was the oil-spitting acid-tripping dog

"I would like to see you at your worst"
What's your worst?

So you'll sleepwalk home
in a sick moon's glow
Just a lonely set of bones
beside a lonely service road
You will crack your skull
like a rotting hull
just to picture all the good you could've done yourself
by picking from the tree.

So I read the psalms
off your painted palms
and they drew a darker picture
than our father would've liked.
It is not your place
to be digging graves
Should have learned from my mistakes
and left it up to fate.