Maybe religion is words in books in churches
And spirit can be found in full body searches
My kharma squeezed the blood from your heart
I realigned your molecules and called it art

You shouldn't have listened to what I said
Maybe I could rent Michael Stipe's head
And use it as a billboard upon which I would tell you
God isn't dead

I work at the circus, at night I read Tolstoy
I'm a low rent, chicken fried, dog faced boy
I'm a freak with a talent for discontent
I'm a barker at the flap of the circus tent

Mayeb I could rent Michael Stipe's head
Tell it what I think, then let it tell me what I said
I'm sorry to have left you gasping for hope
I feel too dirty for soap

Just because breathing is unbearably chancy
And the sight of sore eyes keeps satan dancing
Don't falter at the altar, don't drop the dime
My belief in my belief can only get better in time

Christ, I started out to tell you that it's all okay
It seems that I've forgotten what to say
Michael Stipe isn't dead
Neither is his head