All this talk of saving souls.
Souls weren’t made to save,
like Sunday clothes that give out at the seams
They’re made for wear; they come with lifetime guarantees.
Don’t save your soul.
Pour it out like rain on cracked, parched earth.
Give your soul away, or pass it like a candle flame.
Sing it out, or laugh it up the wind.
Souls were made for hearing breaking hearts,
for puzzling dreams, remembering August flowers,
These men who talk of saving souls!
They have the look of bullies
who blow out candles before you sing happy birthday,
and want the world to be in alphabetical order.
I will spend my soul,
playing it out like sticky string
so I can catch every last thing I touch.