Maybe religion is words in books in churches   And spirit can be found in full body searches   My kharma squeezed the blood from your heart   I realigned your molecules and called it art      You shouldn't have listened to what I said   Maybe I could rent Michael Stipe's head   And use it as a billboard upon which I would tell you   God isn't dead      I work at the circus, at night I read Tolstoy   I'm a low rent, chicken fried, dog faced boy   I'm a freak with a talent for discontent   I'm a barker at the flap of the circus tent      Mayeb I could rent Michael Stipe's head   Tell it what I think, then let it tell me what I said   I'm sorry to have left you gasping for hope   I feel too dirty for soap      Just because breathing is unbearably chancy   And the sight of sore eyes keeps satan dancing   Don't falter at the altar, don't drop the dime   My belief in my belief can only get better in time      Christ, I started out to tell you that it's all okay   It seems that I've forgotten what to say   Michael Stipe isn't dead   Neither is his head