It was cold that night,
I didn’t offer a ride to two Mexican guys.
They were riding their American bikes,
loaded up with two cases of Budlight.
The morning paper’s headline read,
“Two Cyclists Dead” from the freezing rain.
The Reaper’s preying on the sick and lame.
Thank God I’m delivered.
And now it seems,
all we really are,
is what we never really wanted to be.
Last night I dreamt of Heaven,
and Clive Lewis wasn’t there.
The streets were cut from brimstone,
and the rivers lay bare.
The lion lay down with the lamb,
slaughtered at its feet.
I saw many a leper,
still crumbling from his disease.
And my heavenly mansion,
was looking more like a shack.
If he cared he’d add a skylight,
or maybe a patio out back.
I didn’t work till death,
for something this damn small,
when He’s a carpenter afterall.
So I woke myself,
to gasp fresh air,
cuz it was hot as Hell up there.
