First

All this talk of nectar and bliss is starting to piss me off.

I don't know about you, my friend,but my path to God ain't no sweet waft of incense.

It's a cat set loose in a pigeon pen,and I'm the cat--but also them who yell like hell when they get pinned. 

My path to God is a worker's uprising,won't be peace till they unionize.

Their picket is so fearsomethe National Guard won't go near them.

My path was beaten unconscious before me,by a small brown man I never got to see,who chased God through India, shin-deep in mud,barefoot and famined, malarial blood,sleeping in doorways, under bridges--a hobo.