Ushering everyone slowly, ever so slight,
Slow and steady as it always was,
Onward and onward without pause,
Is there someone above after all?
Highly doubt it every one crossing legs,
But what kind of God makes you beg,
The cynic being himself doesn't help,
He doesn't have rhymes in his head,
Even if he did, would he tear out his heart from his chest,
We have to try, that's what she said.
