It’s Sunday morning, 9 AM –
time to get off bed.
Wash my oranges and peel my face,
prepare my Sunday clothes and lock away your bottles.
When I go meet my creator, where will you be?

It’s Sunday morning, 9 AM –
I’m running away from you.
I’ll put my tie on and until ten
I will do what I do
to keep my monster away.

It’s Sunday and my bells ring noon
this is my meeting 24
I have lost count of all my chances
to poison my body as I did my soul.
I’m losing this fight
for freedom of perception.
I’m losing.

It’s Sunday – and I sit in church
listening to others‘ gibberish
of their losses and their victories
of their thirst and perverted thoughts.

Brother!
We’ve been told not to look for God in a bottle
but we can look for wine in a church.

This is alcoholics unanimous
and, boy, are we getting drunk.