My girl comes home from church,
wearing that pretty flower dress.
Every single Sunday,
that same pretty flower dress.
But there’s a stain that getting bigger.
It troubles me, I must confess.
That preacher feeds her lies.
They come spewing from his lips.
My girl’s mind is filled with lies
that come spewing from her lips.
She was once a harvest moon,
now she’s become a total eclipse.
When she’s cooking my breakfast,
she’s telling me to fear the lord.
She gives me oatmeal and black coffee
while urging me to fear the lord.
If I love Christ through fear,
I will achieve a heavenly reward.
But this is a contradiction
that I cannot understand.
Love doesn’t come from fear.
So I cannot understand.
The way I see it, the preacher
is a master of sleight-of-hand.
If fear is the drum,
then it’s hate that makes the boom.
When you pound the drum of fear,
hate makes a loud kaboom.
It sure as hell ain’t no love song.
It sounds more like the dance of doom.
She goes to church, I stay at home.
I’ve got these God fearing blues.
Every single Sunday we’re apart,
I’ve got God fearing blues.
I don’t think my girl or the preacher
really care about my views.
© 2007 David Faulkner
