God doesn't make clones, he makes copies
I'm not sure when it all happened, or why.
But at some points in my life, I was dropped on my head a few times too many. As well as almost killed in a few strange freak accidents.
I believe these things shaped the future that lead me down to this path of wickedness that I stand on today.
Sounds like something you hear echoing in a biblebelt church on a Sunday morning.
"Oh yea! Gimme a I bulll-eeeeeeeeve!! "
I bullleeevve!
" I caint hear Dat! One moooooe time! "
I bulllleeeeeeeve Lawdy, I bullleeeve!
" Cummmon now...Oh yea I said Ohhh yea! "
I bulllleeeeeevvvve!!
The sounds of harmonious chanting fill the Church, the flock sways like long weeds in a golden field, moving in perfect rhythm.
Chanting and swaying, as if being blown along by the mystical Catholic political winds controlled by the right wing of the Church.
The sweltering heat in that church-house rises to the ceiling like cheap perfume in a slaughterhouse.
Rising ever so slowly, pinching their nose's and poking their eyes as it wafts up with its thick heavy fingers and clings to the heavy post and beam ceiling.
Hanging, gripping, only to loiter above them, smothering their cries to the Almighty.
But at some points in my life, I was dropped on my head a few times too many. As well as almost killed in a few strange freak accidents.
I believe these things shaped the future that lead me down to this path of wickedness that I stand on today.
Sounds like something you hear echoing in a biblebelt church on a Sunday morning.
"Oh yea! Gimme a I bulll-eeeeeeeeve!! "
I bullleeevve!
" I caint hear Dat! One moooooe time! "
I bulllleeeeeeeve Lawdy, I bullleeeve!
" Cummmon now...Oh yea I said Ohhh yea! "
I bulllleeeeeevvvve!!
The sounds of harmonious chanting fill the Church, the flock sways like long weeds in a golden field, moving in perfect rhythm.
Chanting and swaying, as if being blown along by the mystical Catholic political winds controlled by the right wing of the Church.
The sweltering heat in that church-house rises to the ceiling like cheap perfume in a slaughterhouse.
Rising ever so slowly, pinching their nose's and poking their eyes as it wafts up with its thick heavy fingers and clings to the heavy post and beam ceiling.
Hanging, gripping, only to loiter above them, smothering their cries to the Almighty.
I may be on that path of wickedness, but as I stand there, I know I still have a choice. With that in mind I forge ahead anyway. Maybe we are all alike in the sense that even with choices, it is in our nature as humans to always make the worst one.
We may not be cloned, but we certainly are cut from the same dirty washrag.
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