The same as my father in the sky with a white dress.
He can not change his arrogant eyes or idle hands,
So let his midgets & pigeons begin their dance.
Sitting in feathers, surrounded by their dirty mess,
As my soul pours out of the hole in my chest.

With dots in my thoughts & blood in my hair,
My father looks at the stars & begins to pray,
To his father above, in a sky so bleak & gray.
I just stand below & quietly stare
At their feeble irony & the dresses they wear.

The midgets & pigeons are to blame for our fathers� pain,
Because those arrogant myths have no place in heart.
For this spiritual revolution is destined to start�
Denying their laws & their theological stain�
Changing my once pure soul into a shallow brain.