God Is Only Mocked By Believers.

It Was My First Doll That Water Went Into And Water Came Out Of Much Earlier It Was The Diaper I Wore And The Dirt Thereof And My Mother Hating Me For It

But Even In A Telephone Booth Evil Can Seep Out Of The Receiver And We Must Cover It With A Mattress, And Then Tear It From Its Roots And Bury It, Bury It.

We Are America. We Are The Coffin Fillers. We Are The Grocers Of Death. We Pack Them In Crates Like Cauliflowers.

Bless All Useful Objects, The Spoons Made Of Bone, The Mattress I Cook My Dreams Upon, The Typewriter That Is My Church With An Altar Of Keys Always Waiting.

It Is A Dead Heart. It Is Inside Of Me. It Is A Stranger Yet Once It Was Agreeable, Opening And Closing Like A Clam.