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Church Of The Saturday Saints

from Womb To Tomb by Dying Breeds

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lyrics

Small boys turning prisoners - all grown up, pissed and vinegared and alone.
"Take the hand of God," he said.
So they climbed a Brazilian monument.

They took from past the wrist, leaving healing hands un-missed,
Singing "Church of the Saturday Saints: we're sick, sick saints".

Fool proof and a bible belt... A simple slip, two cards he dealt (and his home).
"Take the hand and play," he said. So they sold the diamonds for cash instead.

They used spades to unearth the clubs to beat heart's virgin birth,
Singing "Church of the Saturday Saints: we're sick, sick saints".

We're sick, sick saints and we're tired of the drone.
Sick, sick saints and we're going alone.
Sick, sick saints and we're tired of unknown.
Sick, sick saints and we're not going home.
Sick, sick saints and we're breaking bones.

We're members of faith, geared up to give worship a taste
Of our Church of the Saturday Saints: we're sick, sick, sick saints.

credits

from Womb To Tomb, released January 17, 2014

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Dying Breeds Norwich, UK

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