Preacher Preacher by Kojey Radical Lyrics
[Verse 1:]
The sins set on Saturday evening and sons rise on Sunday to the sound of "Get up. We are going to church"
Even with the eyes of a minor, I knew my mother was just as much endowed with her spirituality as I guess
Intuition told her the streets will not raise this child
As we pass police tape and hat-tipping constables, I would be laughing every color like light with stained glass windows and be reminded of how fickle life is
When [?] was a kid I went to primary school with just got life. I would envy the wings of a pigeon
But I never understood why they choose to stay pecking for scraps in inner city blocks
Holding hopelessly to the next piece of bread that comes in their direction, as if a little was enough
Honestly speaking, I only felt guilty [?] when abused, piu or burning incense, they don't remove the scent of faux pas
There was no kumbaya; I did not care how amazing Grace was - this was not for me
Understanding the philosophies behind verse was child's play, yet child's play seemed more enticing than an hour's service of contradictions
I went to what many would call a white church
The bread tasted like paper but the wine a cheeky Merlot
Pardonne moi je me [?] although I did not feel belonging to
Two minutes til service ends removed concern
Two weeks later a man who would teach me Sunday school got arrested for selling cocaine
I once went to a black church
I shared pigment with my peers but felt more alien than ever
Prayer so intense they served more as a distraction than an inspiration
Indignation riddled my core when I saw how much the collection played with the minds of the poor
Eyes closed, tears cascading down side by side with saliva as native tongues would call to the heavens, and I would simply watch, notice the posters, with the pastors face on it
His watch seemed nicer than most. Logos, buzzwords, slogans, spilling from the lips of the host. This service was a business
Alas, there I am, on a Sunday humming to a hymn
His blood is in my hands [?] his body's in the bread
But before that I was taught by an elder to question everything, to see and doubt everything, to [?] whose really in control of the scriptures
A game of Chinese whispers could've diluted what was said
And with all this Christian merchandise, feels like somebody's using his body [?]
[Chorus}:
Preacher, preacher tell me will I get to heaven I've only been sinning half as much as you
Don't condemn me, don't condemn me, don't condemn me, lest you walk at least a day in my shoes
Now who's right? And who's wrong? And what's light? And what's the truth?
Or are we all just living proof?
{Verse 2]:
Years went by, I'm older now, sins set on Saturday evening and sons rise on Sunday to the sound of "I'm going to church. You should come."
My mother was no longer in doubt, but intuition told me the church would not change my mother
When she spends the whole night worrying exactly how she would keep the lights on, but scrapes together her last penny to put in the pocket of her church
Who'd sell her wrist bags for five pounds because it will bless you
Handkerchiefs made holy with a fee, DVDs, guided prayer MP3s because it will save you
But I will be damned if the church saves my mother before I do
Preacher serving blessings to masses like cocaine
Disregarding he do to a life darker than Coco Bees that still taste as sweet
Miss the pastor's judgement and you might hear me weep tears of joy to know my mother just wants the best for me
But can't see past the [?] a small principle [?]
[Hook]:
Just want the best for you. You just want the best for me
I just want the best for you. You just want the best for me
[Chorus]:
Preacher, preacher tell me will I get to heaven I've only been sinning half as much as you
Don't condemn me, don't condemn me, don't condemn me, lest you walk at least a day in my shoes
Now who's right? And who's wrong? And what's light? And what's the truth?
Or are we all just living proof?
[Outro by Zulu]:
Preacher, preacher tell me will I get to heaven I've only been sinning half as much as you
Don't condemn me, don't condemn me, don't condemn me, til you've walked at least a day in my shoes
Now who's right? And who's wrong? And what's life? What's the truth? Tell me what's the truth
Or are we all just living proof? All just living proof, all just living
Preacher, preacher, yeah [?]
Are we all just, all just?
Who's right? And who's wrong? But what's life? And what the truth, what's the truth, what's the?
Living proof, living proof
The sins set on Saturday evening and sons rise on Sunday to the sound of "Get up. We are going to church"
Even with the eyes of a minor, I knew my mother was just as much endowed with her spirituality as I guess
Intuition told her the streets will not raise this child
As we pass police tape and hat-tipping constables, I would be laughing every color like light with stained glass windows and be reminded of how fickle life is
When [?] was a kid I went to primary school with just got life. I would envy the wings of a pigeon
But I never understood why they choose to stay pecking for scraps in inner city blocks
Holding hopelessly to the next piece of bread that comes in their direction, as if a little was enough
Honestly speaking, I only felt guilty [?] when abused, piu or burning incense, they don't remove the scent of faux pas
There was no kumbaya; I did not care how amazing Grace was - this was not for me
Understanding the philosophies behind verse was child's play, yet child's play seemed more enticing than an hour's service of contradictions
I went to what many would call a white church
The bread tasted like paper but the wine a cheeky Merlot
Pardonne moi je me [?] although I did not feel belonging to
Two minutes til service ends removed concern
Two weeks later a man who would teach me Sunday school got arrested for selling cocaine
I once went to a black church
I shared pigment with my peers but felt more alien than ever
Prayer so intense they served more as a distraction than an inspiration
Indignation riddled my core when I saw how much the collection played with the minds of the poor
Eyes closed, tears cascading down side by side with saliva as native tongues would call to the heavens, and I would simply watch, notice the posters, with the pastors face on it
His watch seemed nicer than most. Logos, buzzwords, slogans, spilling from the lips of the host. This service was a business
Alas, there I am, on a Sunday humming to a hymn
His blood is in my hands [?] his body's in the bread
But before that I was taught by an elder to question everything, to see and doubt everything, to [?] whose really in control of the scriptures
A game of Chinese whispers could've diluted what was said
And with all this Christian merchandise, feels like somebody's using his body [?]
[Chorus}:
Preacher, preacher tell me will I get to heaven I've only been sinning half as much as you
Don't condemn me, don't condemn me, don't condemn me, lest you walk at least a day in my shoes
Now who's right? And who's wrong? And what's light? And what's the truth?
Or are we all just living proof?
{Verse 2]:
Years went by, I'm older now, sins set on Saturday evening and sons rise on Sunday to the sound of "I'm going to church. You should come."
My mother was no longer in doubt, but intuition told me the church would not change my mother
When she spends the whole night worrying exactly how she would keep the lights on, but scrapes together her last penny to put in the pocket of her church
Who'd sell her wrist bags for five pounds because it will bless you
Handkerchiefs made holy with a fee, DVDs, guided prayer MP3s because it will save you
But I will be damned if the church saves my mother before I do
Preacher serving blessings to masses like cocaine
Disregarding he do to a life darker than Coco Bees that still taste as sweet
Miss the pastor's judgement and you might hear me weep tears of joy to know my mother just wants the best for me
But can't see past the [?] a small principle [?]
[Hook]:
Just want the best for you. You just want the best for me
I just want the best for you. You just want the best for me
[Chorus]:
Preacher, preacher tell me will I get to heaven I've only been sinning half as much as you
Don't condemn me, don't condemn me, don't condemn me, lest you walk at least a day in my shoes
Now who's right? And who's wrong? And what's light? And what's the truth?
Or are we all just living proof?
[Outro by Zulu]:
Preacher, preacher tell me will I get to heaven I've only been sinning half as much as you
Don't condemn me, don't condemn me, don't condemn me, til you've walked at least a day in my shoes
Now who's right? And who's wrong? And what's life? What's the truth? Tell me what's the truth
Or are we all just living proof? All just living proof, all just living
Preacher, preacher, yeah [?]
Are we all just, all just?
Who's right? And who's wrong? But what's life? And what the truth, what's the truth, what's the?
Living proof, living proof