Mire - Farrow

Private planes line runways, god's elite
Cheques paid in order of golden dreams
The waves ring static, broadcasted
Soak the mind of devout masses

Zealot; bleed them out their pockets
To line your grave
Braindead hopeful
Tithe TV apostles
Broadway baby, prime time father, one time offer
Ratings in
Cashed in at the alter

A yacht, an ark
To float their wallet
Pray to the almighty dollar

Preying on the niave
The working poor
They need hope, but they wont find it
But wait, theres more
For just 10 dollars
You can find your faith
Just three easy payments

Disciple of the airwaves
Pulpit gleaming to the crowd
Long-winded superstition deemed for pennies on the pound
Faithful, pious, grifter
Babble on, the gates await
A place for pageant preachers with their head upon a stake

Scapegoat, they'll cry
New martyrs born, old men forlorn
They enshrine their stubborn pride
The bloody hand of Christ reaps hedge fund vice
The poor their bottom line

Zealot, bleed them out their pockets
Bleed him out

Written by:
Nick Davison

Publisher:
Lyrics © O/B/O DistroKid

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