Sunday God of yours lays claim to your sweet soul -
a spectral, pretty essence of pastel sunrise tones -
but now thin girl who ear-whispers words of sin has found
an idol in your body, you pray with her in braying moans.
If her skin tastes like heaven on your pressed pious lips,
and if she sparks a flaming hell in you with her pulsating hips,
then convert, good pilgrim! An angel with a halo made of pillow
heralds the way - a beauteous, twisting new saviour to follow.
You bear your emblems; religion in your throat, heart on your sleeve.
The cross around your neck struggles, caught between two damp chests;
cold metal against salt sweating flesh as a reminder of His omnipresence;
so beg forgiveness in panting heaves, for immoralities to be confessed.
Try to break your bread in half to share with the girl and the Lord;
Spill your wine between two cups with none for a third to be poured;
Dear, you'll soon grow pale with bloodless flesh, and bodiless heart,
lover and spirit who battle for you - poor boy with chest ripped apart.