God, forgive my adulterous self
Always confused by the tips of tits
And the bouncing of bums
God, they say that the thunder about to strike me
Is still doing press ups
It has been years now
And the thunder must be immensely mascular
God, forgive my lustrous soul
My covetous eye balls
And my self-raising meat dough
Forgive the nuns that have backslid
As a result of let’s say my ‘fine’ language
I am aware of Saul
The one on his horse he fell
Throw me too the ball
And end to my heart so sore
And my mind so restless
Let me bring back the nuns
Let them drop their short skirts
And wear the long ones that I ripped apart
Lower my self-raising dough
Lower my urge for the pointy tits
The white teeth
And the rounded hips
But one thing I plead,
Let me still be attractive
