Our Father,
			If it wasn't for the rain -
			The rain is trying his lungs,
			our father
			Who art in heaven
			And puppets the tin
			When the sky breaks.
			The sky filled his lungs
			And blew tin bullets,
			Checked the fire on his tongue.
			The lion man
			On his silver neurotransmitter,
			Rushing his breath, breaks shot,
			Watches his feet pin the carpet,
			And clears his icy throat.
			The breaks are shot, our father.
			Will there be more tomorrow?
			Our father,
			his nerves make him cold,	
			tie his tongue.
			He moves his tongue,
			An arctic slab of steel
			And pats the red roof,
			Trying his lungs, our father.
			The rain
			Is herding the windows
			Tight around this little yellow room,
			Trying him in white wet veils of mindless noise.
			If it wasn't for the rain,
			Our father,
			I think he'd make it.