Best Served With: Amen by Falz
Humanity spends its life buying hope,
Deducing and detecting supreme will,
Wide-eyed, white-eyed-higher-than-man man,
Instructing ants on how to cope;
How to make heaven. Convenient.
How even though He made us in His image,
Through our self-righteous pilgrimage,
He looks like us in our thoughts and dreams,
But none of us have ever seen Him.
Salvaging everything, our saving grace,
Like capitalism or insurance,
His thought train condensed in a single place,
His presence the ultimate assurance.
Is your landlord harassing you?
Are your colleagues salivating your downfall?
Is your despair the world’s benefit?
Does your life seem derelict?
Come to Him,
My brothers and sisters,
The Lord has seen your sins and he will forgive them all.
Come to church
Looking for a mister,
The Lord surpasses that dread of downfall,
For “you reap what you sow” does not apply to all.
In fact, as I preach to this congregation,
A gentleman sits at the back,
Having killed his mother in swift elation,
Seeks salvation from his will to attack
That beautiful lady in the third row,
The public used her body for extra green,
Now that death’s scythe is inches from her brow,
Her diseased garments seek solution from a higher being.
I, Myself have impregnated an extra-marital affair,
I refuse to marry this result of the devil,
And she currently strides to my house; inferior and unfair,
She hath opened her legs only to be swindled.
As Despair grips her broken, luscious mumbles,
She aims to set my house alight,
And while my wife and kids against carbon struggle,
Here I am, preaching about the good fight.
But at least I’m better than you;
I dare to tell myself the truth.
Though you “Amen”, kneel and dance your sense away,
Your heart is corrupted,
And this lifestyle you’ve adopted,
Infects your house every single day.
Monday, you’re monopolising a multitude,
Making many a mind miserable,
Your mouth a makeshift moat of platitudes,
Muffled mumblings moaning to the less able.
Tuesday ties tiles of titillation,
Your tits tell teasing tales of his forbidden touch,
And while your tantalising marriage tends you at home
Tis not enough; appeal lacking as such
To tether your tumultuous tendencies,
As you toggle his trembling torch of temptation.
Wedding Wednesday to a wandering woe,
wondering whether Wanda and Walter,
walk and whisper your wheezing wilts,
warlock Pride worries; wakes the start.
The walls of the whining walnut whipped apart.
Thursday. Tottering Thursday.
Tickling theriomorphism turns tears turbulent,
Though Timothy teaches to turn away from sin,
You tumble totally; unsalvageable it seems,
But terrifying turning point tussles to redeem.
For image, glamour, glory or ties,
The world you fake your face; yourself you tell lies.
Friday’s following a faith foundation,
Forcing farces on faces with feverish fervour,
Finding failed fillings to falsify,
As fake feelings relish the flavour.
So Saturday’s sad sorrows sing
singed solutions showing
shoved sororities of sin,
Saying “slithering snakes shed
soothing songs of salvation”.
But on Sunday you change.
None of it shows;
Not the monopoly of Monday,
The tangled titillation of Tuesday
The wary worryings of Wednesday
The tickling tinges of Thursday
The forced falsification on Friday
The sorrowful sinning of Saturday—
None of it.
No. Because it is His day.
Righteousness pumps your veins when you wake up,
Your mind’s dysfunction transforms to make up,
Wear luxury to shun your neighbours,
Smallest iniquities turn major:
You want to get sober and sombre for Sunday,
It all must be done His way,
Your clothes, car, house and husband,
But His way, to you, is as solid as sand.
Everything you do on that day must be perfect,
But the reality is you don’t digest.
Don’t treat His veins as worth it,
Every other day an indulgent sinner,
On Sunday a prosperous prophet.
May the Lord bless us as we sin with men and women,
And may we bless His Name till we get money,
He always forgives so sin again and again.
In Jesus’s Mighty Name we have prayed, Amen.
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