My lover's got humour She's the giggle at a funeral Knows everybody's disapproval I should've worshiped her sooner If the heavens ever did speak She's the last true mouthpiece Every Sunday's getting more bleak A fresh poison each week 'We were born sick,' you heard them say it My Church offers no absolutes. She tells me, 'Worship in the bedroom.' The only heaven I'll be sent to Is when I'm alone with you— I was born sick, But I love it Command me to be well Amen. Amen. Amen. Amen.