A petulant dick crafts the world in its image, and is then entirely forgotten about.
lyrics
Last night a thunderous storm tore through this town,
And the dumb rage of an impotent god made its first sounds.
The congregation had been thinning, the philistines had done their part
T o distract the faithless sheep from the old man's art.
Because their lofty little lies had started eating at the pride of the arbiters of the divine.
And the artist who remains anonymous is never signed. Every god needs an audience.
So he picked himself a prophet, someone who could feed the sheep
And contract their bleating souls for a sinner's fee.
So they built themselves a temple from the wreckage of the storm,
And no dissent was ever heard again from the satiated horde.
Because their dank and dusty world had started begging for a primer.
A hefty cog that could cause the mess.
Because the canvas that's abused is better used than not at all.
Leave it for the dogs of memoriam.
One day my visage will be buried by the flood,
but maybe the waves I make will carry some of my blood.
Maybe I'll be read and maybe I'll be judged.
Maybe I should have just shut my ass up.
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