Queen Black Acid

Spending the best years
Of a childhood
Horizontal on the floor
Like a bobsled
Minus the teamwork
And the televised support
And nothing sounds appealing
Someone retired
On a percentage
Of the tithes that paved these roads
They lead to nowhere
But they’re still gridlocked
Made of Solomon’s pure gold
Beneath the door frame
Waiting for earthquakes
After the rapture comes and goes
The saints went marching
The trumpets sounding
The chosen ones are phoning home
And nothing sounds appealing