Part of a proud history of fuck-ups

while walking under powerlines
a voice drew near to me and pulled me
behind a telephone pole and spoke to me,
and said to me, don't be ashamed
of the ragged clothes you've worn
for so long you've forgotten
the feel of fine thread, don't be ashamed
of your low beaten bed, you're part of
a proud history of fuck-ups, part of
a proud history of fuck-ups.
the kings who ignore you
and occupy your throne,
the women who scoff when they should be
bearing your glow-in-the-dark babies,
the countries at war in the night overhead
are blessing you silently with their violence
blessing you silently with their violence
clearing a path for you to walk
through the desolate dessert
they've created; only the furthest outcast
can climb through that wound,
only one who hears electric voices
on a magic sidewalk, who is part
of a proud history of fuck-ups.

may a holy spirit guide your hand
may a holy spirit guide your hand
may a holy spirit guide your hand
you're
part of a proud history of fuck-ups