Our Lord is a Psychopathic Surgeon in the Sky
Words & Melody by Carol Murphy
Our Lord is a psychopathic surgeon in the sky
He holds all the cards and we don’t ask why
Perfection is his chain-link fence, and no one is getting by
In his LA world of gold and souls and sex on the side
No football, no foot fall in the theatre of his reign
Basketball with cotton wool, here we go again
The nurses cringe as the operation comes to an end
And the man lying with his heart exposed is bait once again
Lying in the theatre all his whims are the Lord’s for free
Aooooohhhhh the surgeon slam dunks the ball into open surgery
High fives the doctors as he leaves the discord
Not a word said, because no one ever back chats the Lord
Low rider cruising sex broker money to be spent
Looking for indigenous ass to want the whims he’s bent
Caribbean beaches pink sunsets flamingos run into flight
And the Lord pays for a blow job and heads into the night
He drinks through his straw and looks at his watch and says, “It’s about time.”
The man watching TV with his wife starts to gag and whine
“I have a deep pain in my heart, and in my head I feel enmeshed and intertwined.”
His wife says, “Let us pray to our Lord, and a way he will find.”
Our Lord smiles and wonders about the meaning of the word “kind”
He fills out the paperwork, declaring the man dead, all sealed and signed
And he scrubs his hands and snaps the rubber, as he is inclined
To line up another victim into the playhouse of his mind.
Have I crossed the line?
