Whiskey Hymns

I’ve always taken people at their word,

handed out blank checks, and pencils,

cashed them in with all the hurt.

Where they erased the truth

and turned on all the gaslights,

adding zeros to their already

inflated bottom line.

They’ll sit in a pew on Sunday,

suits and ties and strings of pearls,

feigning worship of a higher power

while a mirror is their whole world.

Those kind of people will shoot you,

then complain of the blood dripping form your chest,

singing hymns and songs of praise

with whiskey on their breath.