The Lord's Pasture

wicked writer's block and i'm really cynical soooooo o oo oooo o

Breathe in the church culture- 

the cotton kings wrapped in sin and whiskey

and cleansed by their mistress' hands,

and the little women who choose to ignore

the lipstick smear and the hang of 

absinthe on their lover's collars-

This is God's day, here.

Breathe in the dust

sticking to the flushed necks of

men whose hands are bigger than their

hearts and equally as callous;

the "Gentleman" whose gentle

is 6 am slaughter for a prize head on the wall-

"This is honor, son"

Listen fast to their unease

and watch the white-knuckled boys hang on to the

pews like their life depends on it,

like the fists they make now 

will defend them on Judgement Day, 

preaching words they don't believe in, anyway.

They can recite the Lord's prayer faster

than they can say "I'm sorry";

point a finger

than they can admit they're wrong

What does that tell you?

What does that say?

Georgia goodmen'll hold the door

and just as quick smack your a*s

and Tennessee sweet talkers

know their way around a bar

know their way

around the law

this is the South, ya hear,

and the Dixie damners

have more money than God

himself, more

power

than the messiah-

Welcome to the South.