Better think of my answers now because I know the questions will be asked 
Like if I brought the joy I found in the confessions of a mask 
The tip of my tongue's already touching the top of my mouth 
It's meaning manifest in mercy burning down the house 
It's [bad word] that tactless teem totem-poles turn tolerance to tired taboos 
It's [bad word] that a bullet never knocks on the door, it's about [bad word] crashing through 
Walking one last mile in big steps as your alter-wine 
Doing it in tattered shoes that aren't even mine 
Because my own are in a box locked up with possessions I can't have 
Like the gunman with his future and the prison priest's golden calf 

Blindfolds aside I'd probably still close my eyes 
And try to feel a trembling fetal life inside that shotgun barrel that's about to make me bleed 
Like an ulcer in the stomach of the beast 
Like a little girl on a bed that was years ago deceased 
Resurrected last night with a letter she can't trace 
Resurrected to be killed and maybe born again 
I'll always be Kezia so long as any hope remains