You know, it’s easy to look back on days
like a dustbin’s cluttered centre
- The placenta of the city on the run.

I went to mass, and I asked them, how?
And the priest just told me, “No!…
You’ve got mind enough, if you’ve mind enough to moan.”

Lady Beckett and her horseless crew
Arrive with swords all risen,
While I’ve wasted half my youth on being hungry.

And I just don’t know who to blame
‘cause I’m as bad as any other,
and God, the father, won’t even send me a lover.

And Jesus was a Miffty kind of mother…

I’m bombarded with all types of lies,
I have to juggle paranoia.
Then I’m made to feel some way about the outcome.

And it seems a leader’s only good
in the wake of hindsight’s plain.
Then we’ll see how well a man can do without one.

That’s why we cast our father’s eye
in the ditch with all deception,
and prefer the tongue of hell under the covers.

And why Jesus was a miffty kind of mother.

But even he won’t hear me out.

I hear J Dilla on the Boom-Bap beats
While masters pass me by -
There’re far too many albums to get them down you.

But who’s got time to listen when
we’re all possums to the slaughter
who’ve built a flex to dodge all types of danger.

And an idea’s the most disarming thing
when you’re used to the old motions,
but time will wear you down like wine I wager.

And all this comes in many forms -
The sun, the sea, the father,
who had a switchblade to the neck of his own daughter.

And Jesus, who’s a miffty kind of mother (x3)