He hasn’t shaved in weeks
Greasy hair, dirt compact under his yellow finger nails
Cigarette breathe, whiskey dreams fill his head
As much say as the rats under the floorboards
He walks through giant oak doors; golden crosses, scent galore
The door slams shut mid sermon, fresh faces turn to see
The elephant in their holy room
How foul this trash interrupts our embarkment to salvation
A crisp twenty in the communion
An assessment to flee heaven and hell’s union
A young girl, golden hair in curls, blows hot and cold on this enigma
The man with, his calloused hands clinched
He arises, clears his throat begins
He condemns their money
A cluttered mind no longer dreams
Just then he screams
"If you can buy your way to heaven, then I’ll rot in the ground"
