| Joan of Arc had a dildo named Jesus
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| Made of wood from the cross of its namesake
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| She considered the splinters atonement
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| And when she came it would fill her with light!
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| Her body was an ocean full of wreckage
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| Her flesh was a map of hell
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| That spilled out the sides of her dresses
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| The flabby arms of modern surrender
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| A smothering mother’s body
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| Body like a black hole
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| Pulling calories and emotion and her many children to her
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| She was childless
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| She was alone
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| She found comfort in the bible
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| A gravity like her own
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| Promising always to pull her down before she floated into space
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| (and space was the place she feared most)
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| Staring out her window
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| Distant planets were cold
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| Until a voice came to her in the night
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| She was sitting in her kitchen it was flooded with light
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| And she wandered out into her backyard
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| Wearing nothing but her house dress
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| And there
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| Behind the racist lawn status and the plastic fountain
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| She saw her hedges in flames!
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| «speak to me lord» she said
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| And the world would never be the same
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| «speak to me lord» she said
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| I killed a queer for Christ and didn’t even get a thank you letter
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| I let Jesus take the wheel and he drove me off the road
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| And though i know
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| He only did that shit to test my faith
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| I’m saying.
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| Nothing
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| I’m praying
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| About it
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| I’m asking god to keep the lights on and shrink my tumors
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| And keep em from privatizing my job and to reach those in power!
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| Those who forsake this nation by not crushing the wicked &
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| Them who will not burn the world out of their body
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| Those who refuse to kneel
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| Them who choose the wheel
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| Those demons walking the earth
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| Building evil empires
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| Threatening from outside
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| I know that Satan
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| The stranger
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| The foreign
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| The invader
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| Is the creator of Mexican immigrants and Al-Qaeda
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| And lord I’ll understand if you want the earth to be flooded again
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| In fact my faith could melt an iceberg if you ever need a hand
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| Just deliver me and mine to the Promised Land
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| Joan of Arc had a dildo named Jesus
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| Made of wood from the cross of it’s namesake
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| And her orgasms were all omens
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| When she came it would fill her with right!
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| And when the light had finally left her
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| She lay ruined across her sheets
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| Her mouth unhinged
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| Her shape like a victim
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| Murdered, in a sleep without dreams
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| Joan of Arc was a warrior poet
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| And she baptized the world in flame
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| And she never stopped to wonder, for even a moment
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| Why «Jesus»
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| Never came |