Master Blaster
I met God behind a dumpster in a Southside back alley,
screaming pagan magic makes the rack fall, earth sink,
time blink and coasting across the threshold of nth.
See, I can't quite put my finger on the reason, but
creator's dust musters patience for this treason.
It's Big Bang in a bottle, mass produced for the idiots
that slink around the pulpit wondering where all the time went.
This s**t is pertinent and relevant, so bag, tag and embellish it,
because for a thousand ******** years, I swear it's gonna be regret.
So we build Scions for synagogues, Jeeps for the people,
as they sing like the drowning little masses in the steeples.
Man, I need a new fire to light, when i see a bum Jesus
begging quarters for the plight.
I bet he drinks like a shark and swims in fear like a Hobo,
while smoking ten packs a day, moving in slow-mo.
They'll download his fading health to every i-Pod Nano,
singing songs by teen pop idols, and throwing real faith out the window.
I'm waiting for retribution in the form crushing earthquakes
that cover up the false-iron-idols we create.
The cities fall like panties drop in co-ed dorms
and people flee from wrath, divine, while seeking to reform.
The master of the universe now comes with parts, directions and recession,
as we gnaw apart this faded life like fat kids chew confections.
Sad but true and missing pieces; trick and treats resound.
Living in your text is nothing too profound.
I die in this chair, I s**t where I eat, my life is now complete,
so my deity takes me away from this place, tasting nothing but subtle defeat.
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