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