Tithe

Spending the best years of a childhood horizontal on the floor
Like a bobsled minus the teamwork and the televised support

And nothing sounds appealing

Someone retired on a percentage of the tithe that paved these roads
They lead to nowhere but they're still gridlocked, made of Solomon's pure gold
Beneath the door frame waiting for earthquakes after the rapture comes and goes
The saints went marching, the trumpets salving, the chosen ones are phoning home

And nothing sounds appealing