Tithe

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