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They're Bad, but We're Worse.

de Half-Handed Cloud

I'm about to faint
no one remembers you when they're dead
or praises you from the grave
I can't sing if I'm six feet under
weeping and it's flooding
in my bedroom tear ducts running
You list each one within you record
Enter tears into your ledger

Consider all our sighs
we lay requests before in expectation
My thoughts trouble me,
but so do gaping stares of the wicked
Open up their mouth-throat
it's an open grave it's a misquote
They love each harmful word
whatever is unbefitting
And the fuzz won't quit

We have sinned
even our fathers did
We traded in the God of glory
for an image of a cow
that eats the pasture
Offered as a sacrifice
all our children
to the demon
we've hurt a lot
and hurt a lot of kinship

Pry us loose from this grip...

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