Sometimes I feel so dirty when I hear all those nasty words
Coming out about fornication and men burning with sinful desire for other men
And women disdaining their natural function for other women,
All those idolaters and lascivious loose lips from tainted pens that promote indecent behavior.
I just want to tell you about the savior who can help you get better,
Or maybe I could just call Pat Robertson and have him talk to you,
‘Cause He’s so much better at it than me.
He’s always so sincere on TV,
Oh, and thank god for Ralph Reed and the Christian Coalition that gives the righteous a voice,
They can counteract pro-choice with life and the truth.
Oh, cleanse me from all the filth ‘cause I’m so frustrated that people can’t just believe
What I do and do what I like and vote right in Florida!
Why can’t they write poems about Jesus and Mary?
And why would you put your tongue in the…Oooh! Sick!
What’s so great about bein’ high?
I feel so sorry for all those addicted users and losers.
So I leave the house of the secular world and return to my own, alone,
Wondering why I don’t feel it when I pray anymore,
Afraid to tell about my own struggles with pornography,
Afraid to admit that I don’t feel that close to God or anyone else,
Afraid that when I tell you how to live you’ll see right through my do-gooder mask
To my longings to experience some sort of connection with another person.
Scared that you’re not good enough for my precious pearls of wisdom,
And you’ll say mean things to me.
You know, pigs have a very hard time digesting pearls,
And I’ve never seen one wearing a necklace made of ‘em.
They seem hungry for things they can eat.
Of course, if there’s no food, the closest edible thing would be
The pearl proffering person pushing purported purity from stained glass walled security.
I wonder if it’s better to right or to be friends,
If winning a verbal battle mends a wounded heart,
If the spite that condemns has ever inspired the start of a world of peace?
Jesus seemed pretty at home with children, the homeless, blind, lame, alcoholics,
Demon-possessed madmen, prostitutes and crooks, like me.
Who more resembles Him,
And who’s really the dirty one when the show has run its course,
Begun the hoarse croaked song of mercy in the background, so soft it takes silence to hear,
So strong it conquers judgment and draws us near to our intended image,
Who we’re created to represent?
