My lover's got humor, she's the giggle out of funeral, knows everybody's disapproval, should've worshipped her sooner. If the heavens ever did speak, she's the last true mouthpiece. Every Sunday's getting more bleak, fresh poison each week. We were born sick, you're gonna say it. My church office no absolute, she tells me worship in the bedroom. 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 wary. Amen. Amen. Amen.