• Hey there mister Preacher,
    with your robes and your words,
    got a bible in one hand,
    in the other one a bird,

    And you're sitting in the backseat
    of a rusty old Sedan,
    telling me about Religion
    and about God's secret plans.

    And how I'm such a sinner
    And how you're God's favorite child
    And how everything I say will mark
    me as a man, defiled.
    You ask if I believe, and
    tell me that I can't perceive
    what is real and what is fake,
    that I won't ever conceive.

    Really now? You're telling me
    that I am gonna die and see,
    your savior of a God will say
    that I'm a worthless enemy?

    What I believe is my own,
    to myself I keep it known,
    and you have no right to judge me
    based on what I hide and show.

    "Here's the fact of the matter,
    I think we can both agree
    that this argument is pointless
    and you can't, change, me.

    I guess I was born a sinner,
    and I guess I'm born a liar,
    and I guess I'm born a loser
    who won't grow a little higher

    But between us - leave us,
    you can't understand, can't feel us,
    too close-minded to believe us,
    that this life is real to us,
    that we don't have to be believers,
    that we can be good people without being preachers."

    And the irony is,
    in all that 'religion' talk,
    I never once heard what good
    could come of bowing to the cross.

    I only ever heard
    that I was a loser, lost and burned,
    and how he was better than me.
    For a 'preacher', that's absurd!