Oh, but it's the little things you do
Got to catch it crawling over you
Sneeze past this brawling fever skew
Sitting so dulcet in your pew
What did you do, girl— what did you do?
If in the pulpit sits the deacon
Who rakes the heavens with his preaching
What kind of karma-shit he's teaching
Your bottom-feeder instincts reaching
Mandagora itching, itching— eaten
Urga-baby: can't you cry?
Some bastard's hand caught in your eye
For the cull that feeds the rye
If you won't accuse then you will die