Writhing on the floor;
writhing for the lord.
It’s again I’ve been born…
left my old life alone.
With all the others I moan;
we all plan to atone…
lives we had before.

We’re all filling up our throats
with non-language we emote.
Glossolalia today—
nonsense what we say.
The syllables elide
in incoherent cries
spilling from our throats. [incoherent babbling]


World’s a transitional plan;
world’s from what we plan to scram.
When we leave this land,
we’ll be Rapture fans.
The world sometime will end;
heaven’s where we’ll wend,
says the preacher man.

Writhing on the floor;
tithing up a storm.
Of funds we all are shorn,
and so we take out loans.
We then mortgage our homes;
preacher takes all we own…
writing checks galore.

Writhing still some more,
tithing still some more.
Piles of gold are scored.
Cries the preacher: “More!!”
Piously we’re poor.