Mr. Blasphemy-At-The-Whisper — In the Pew

Lyrics

[Intro]
The air in here is thick.
Smells like old wood and duty.
Sunday, 10:42 AM.

[Verse 1]
He's in Pew 14B.
Trying to focus on the sermon.
Something about Leviticus.
But his mind wanders to the hat on Mrs. Gable in the row ahead.
It's a felt thing, a sort of sad, purple bird.
And the bird just… blinked.
No, it didn't.
It was a trick of the light.
But the thought is there.
A blinking, judgmental felt bird.
A small spark in his chest.

[Chorus]
And here it comes.
The laugh.
The one you can't have.
It starts in the diaphragm, a tectonic plate of pure wrong.
He swallows.
Hard.
It hurts.
A sharp stitch under the left rib.
God isn't watching this transaction.
God's busy with Leviticus.
But his mother, two pews up, she has sonar for this kind of sin.

[Verse 2]
He opens the hymnal.
Page 34.
"A Mighty Fortress."
He reads the words.
A bulwark never failing.
He tries to think about bulwarks.
About fortresses.
But all he can see is the purple bird, now wearing a tiny helmet.
A bulwark helmet.
The pressure builds.
His eyes are watering.
He's trying to pass it off as piety.
A tear for the Lord.
A tear for the bird.

[Chorus]
And there it is again.
The laugh, clawing its way up his throat.
The swallow is a gulp now.
The rib is a hot wire.
He bites his tongue.
Tastes metal.
God doesn't care about a smirk in the back row.
But his mother… her disapproval could curdle the communion wine from a hundred yards.

[Bridge]
A sound escapes.
A little squeak.
A mouse in the wall of his chest.
He turns it into a cough.
A dry, terrible, unconvincing cough.
Three people turn their heads.
The bird doesn't move.
His face is burning.
He stares at his shoes.
Polished this morning.
For this.
For this quiet, holy torture.

[Outro]
The final prayer is said.
Amen.
A collective rustle of coats.
He can breathe.
The laugh is gone.
But the ache in his side remains.
A ghost of blasphemy.
He files out, nods to his mother.
She doesn't smile.
She knows.
She always knows.