If crying made things better, I’d cry myself a holy river

Of wine that tasted sweeter than your cheeks.

Praying in a temple – chanting a mantra,

Hid away and clutching holy beads.

They’ll clasp their hands together

And get down on their knees,

They’ll pray for hope and faith

And love and peace and all of these.

But deep down they really are afraid,

These holy cows and cats, they’ve got it made.

Deep down we’re really all the same,

Fools pray to a god and then they all chant his name.

They’re all having a laugh, they’re lighting matches in the bath

But they’re only here to see if they can steal your soul.

As the sun sets in the eastern skies, I drift off into words of wise

Instant karma, shit nirvana, hello and goodbye.

They’ll pray that much harder,

Although they can’t see it’s all going wrong,

They’ll pray to any sod you know,

Although they might as well pray to King Kong.

But deep down they really are afraid,

These holy cows and cats they’ve got it made.

Deep down we’re really all the same,

Fools pay for a god and then they all chant his name.

©  Keith Arthur