I think Jesus knows I’m nuts
so why would he arraign me
in front of all those saints on high
so sane they’ll never see me
skipping down the road at dawn
and not a soul behind me.
Funnel clouds may tear through hell
but not the ones inside me.
They come and go all on their own
as if they can’t abide me.
Today they’re off to New Orleans
so batten down the hatches.
When they return they’ll churn again
whirligigs inside me.
Yet every day when I get up
I know this much for certain:
I think Jesus knows I’m nuts
so why would he arraign me?
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