simple things

quadron continue to amaze.

on repeat on repeat on repeat

my lover’s got humor
she’s the giggle at a funeral
knows everybody’s disapproval
i should’ve worshipped her sooner
if the heavens ever did speak
she is 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 absolution
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.