Saint Morrissey
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I may be a firm believer,
Or maybe a firm persuasion,
Or maybe the time releases none.
Deliver this sage of word and tongue,
Tell us the things this man has done,
Convict the accused, and condemn if you must. . .
(Chorus)
Saint Stephen, Saint Patrick, Saint Morrissey,
Why would you give your life for these?
Just make the oh-so-lame to see. . .
Saint Stephen, Saint Patrick, Saint Morrissey.
(If gods reconsider thingsโ
Did they who made the Moz, make thee?)
Nevertheless, you sing his songs,
You sin and repent, and then all is gone.
The sentence is served, but the words run on.
One never knows where one belongs
cs face in the midst of a faceless throng,
But gathering stones somehow feels wrong . . .
There but for the grace of God, go I.