Chosen People

Chosen people sometimes sit on barstools

And Nazerites will sit on city curbs

Prophesy to us and call us fools

Symbolically they smoke their bitter herbs

I met a holy apostle one time

Sent to shake things up and rearrange

He asked me if I could spare him a dime

I gave him a dollar. He gave me change.

I met a priestess on Court Street and Main

She made her living selling magic tricks

She shot heroine to deal with the pain

But I was the one who needed a fix.

Chosen people sometimes hide in closets

And that’s where Jesus said that we should pray

In the secret place where no one knows it

And praying without ceasing these folks stay

Once I went up to a monk’s apartment

Above a liquor store where he got paid

Celibacy—God’s gift and impartment—

Was his gift from when he learned that he had AIDS

I knew a saint whose man liked to hit her

He kicked far more often than he kissed

Taking pain from everyone who met her

She’d transfer all my hurt into his fist

Chosen people sometimes don’t have a choice

Chosen people aren’t choices you would like

Chosen people are God’s hands and His voice

And haven’t chosen the road that they take