Sunday again listening to the blues;
Getting my share;
Church is in secession;
And to its intentions;
I really couldn’t say;
Things are different every day;
And how much should I care;
That depends on the dues.
More than half are ghost;
And through my ears I play as host.
They’re fingers popping;
With senses hopping;
They dance to the midnight stroll;
Double talking rhymes;
And where am I going I never know.