again born on Sunday morn

the hate is all I have
on a shattered Sunday morn
there's not enough drugs
to be reborn

the sabbat is black
and there is no sun
no such thing as light
all my life
been strickened blind

you think there's room for me
in the house of God?
you think he herds the faithful
in around his throne with cattle prods?

a priest once spoke with me
at the tender age of seven
he told me the tale of the serpent
and how he was cast from heaven

I felt so sorry for this creature
trampled under foot
I always pick the underdog
the angel cloaked in soot

because I was never taken in,
accepted
flung into the bin
with all the other cast-asides
we pleasure each other
and plan suicide

the priest made a gesture
with his forearm and hand
to mock the motion of the serpent
as it would coil through the sand

All I thought was he was dodging
Arrows from the heavens
Why is it that God hates him
if he's part of his creation?