God, I'm Sorry

God, I’m sorry.

I’m truly fucking sorry.

I took your name in vain.

Please acknowledge my shame:

I cursed you a few times and more.

I’m not an infidel. I don’t think I ever have been.

(There was one time. We’d been on one date, or two tops,

but we weren’t officially going out at that point,

and it was in Germany, and what happens on tour

stays on tour, so I think it’s borderline at best).

I know you worry.

I don’t want you to worry.

It must drive you insane,

When your sheep wander astray,

Do things you might deplore.

There’s not so much to tell: In any case, you’ll’ve seen.

(It’s all been fine: Most of the times with the cops

weren’t anything arrestable, just background noise,

like cautions for crossing tracks, or being drunk,

or at gorse-burning parties that I really should’ve left).

If I can say sorry and truly try and mean what I said,

Can we come to some arrangement do you think?

Like if I promise that from now on I just won’t

do anything bad, and I'll say you’re great, and stuff?

I'll do my best, and try not to be mean

and love your son and that ghost bloke -

you're totes my fave hat-trick -

and I'll sing songs to your name?

And all that do re

mi fa so?

And in return (not that I’m demanding it)

If you could see your way to giving me a break

And letting my back heal, so I can work,

and you just lay off with the deaths for a touch?

Just give me a little spell where the grass really is green

and everybody’s warm,

and nobody’s in pain?

Let me try, and try again:

I say, and please believe me

God: I’m sorry.