Whiskey Communion

Eleven a.m. at the Buckhorn Bar Sunday mornin', the regulars come Bartender wears a collar she stole in '92 — And she pours the body and the blood

Father Mike sits two stools down Quit the diocese in '85 Drinks his coffee with a shot of Jim And he asks the Lord to come alive Asks the Lord to come alive

Whiskey communion, neon altar Eleven a.m. and the regulars don't falter Some men kneel for a wafer, some men kneel for a glass — And the Lord don't ask which one, brother The Lord don't ask which one The Lord don't ask which one

There's a woman in the corner who lost a son There's a man on the door who lost a tour Every Sunday, eleven on the dot — We confess, and we pour, and we pour, and we pour

Bartender said baby, you been comin' here longer Than my whole damn marriage, give or take I said darlin', the church closed up in May — And my Lord don't take a Sunday break My Lord don't take a Sunday break

You can keep your stained glass, brother You can keep your steeple too Give me a barstool and a juke and a bottle — And the body and the blood comes through The body and the blood comes through

Whiskey communion, neon altar Eleven a.m. and the regulars don't falter Lay me in the booth, brother, lay me on the bar — And let the jukebox preach me through Let the jukebox preach me through

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