He hasn’t shaved in weeks 
Greasy hair, [bad word] 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 [bad word] our embarkment to salvation 

crisp twenty in [bad word] 
An assessment to flee heaven and [bad word] s union 
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 
cluttered mind no longer dreams 
Just then he screams 

"If you can buy your way to heaven, then I’ll rot in the ground"