One Take Spon - The Fruit Skin

My lover's got humour,
She's the giggle at a funeral,
Knows everybody's disapproval,
I should've worshipped her sooner.
If the Heavens ever did speak,
She is the last true mouthpiece.
Every Sunday's getting more bleak,
A fresh poison each week.
We were born sick”, you heard them say it
My church offers no absolution,
She tells me, “Worship in the bedroom