| Lyrics: | She likes to keep God out of church,
especially when she prays:
all in its place, all
safely stored
for some rogation day....
the paradox is so apparent,
the sense absurd,
but all too real;
the nonsense is arrant
but she just wants to feel
comfortable.
A pound in the collection-box,
a name-plate by the aisle;
she
always wears a hat,
for He'll appreciate the style.
Pays no attention to the
sermon,
Christ in himself has no appeal,
the social custom is the turn-on
and she
just wants to feel comfortable.
Treading not on her illusions,
I will not walk upon
my own:
we stand among the creature comforts;
we're standing on
the stockpiles of
first stones.
We stand on the brink of the Ultrapower,
assume it's a proper
place,
view the living hour by hour
in the first person singular case.
On with the
usual, complacent,
wait for the mortal wound to heal
when the abyss is
adjacent...
what right have we gotto feel
comfortable?
On with the usual
complacency,
on with the customary zeal;
she doesn't need to match a valency,
she
just wants to feel comfortable.
It's her blindness and her blessing
that the thought
will not occur
that heaven, when it comes, might have
no special place for
her.
She'll never look at the enigma,
she doesn't want things quite that real.
Oh,
that's some kind of stigma --
What right has she got to feel
comfortable?
She
doesn't want to think about it,
she doesn't want to talk about it,
she doesn't want to
look at it.
It makes her feel uncomfortable |
