Mic Check, One, Two... You're Through!"

(Verse 1)

I floated down, on a cloud so bright,

Thought I'd check in, see if things were right.

Heard a ruckus, quite a holy din,

Some fella shouting, "Let the good times in!"

With a wireless mic, gleaming in his hand,

Preaching 'bout me, across the promised land.

Said, "He loves you, he's got a grand design!"

Funny, 'cause I'm pretty sure that thought was mine!

(Chorus)

Oh, you prophets of the podium, with your booming sound,

Spreading "my" word, all over town.

With your slicked-back hair and your tailored suits,

Spouting scripture, bearing questionable fruits.

You're on a divine call, or so you claim,

But you're really just playing a broadcast game.

I'm the original, the genuine, the real McCoy,

So put down that mic, my boy!

(Verse 2)

Saw another one, with a TV show,

"Miracles and Offerings," watch the money flow!

Said I healed the sick, with a gentle touch,

Then he tried to sell 'em, "Holy Water," much too much!

"For a small donation, just ten bucks a vial!"

I cured lepers for free, with a genuine smile!

Heard him say, "Jesus wants you to be rich!"

News flash, buddy, I preferred a humble niche.

(Chorus)

Oh, you prophets of the podium, with your booming sound,

Spreading "my" word, all over town.

With your slicked-back hair and your tailored suits,

Spouting scripture, bearing questionable fruits.

You're on a divine call, or so you claim,

But you're really just playing a broadcast game.

I'm the original, the genuine, the real McCoy,

So put down that mic, my boy!

(Bridge)

You've got your mega-churches, bigger than my stable,

Spiritual advice, all on a cable.

Talking 'bout the rapture, and the fiery pit,

While I'm just thinking, "Can't you just sit and knit?"

I taught compassion, love, and a gentle grace,

Not shouting scriptures from a public space.

It's not about the decibels, or the light-up cross,

It's about the message, not the financial gloss.

(Chorus)

Oh, you prophets of the podium, with your booming sound,

Spreading "my" word, all over town.

With your slicked-back hair and your tailored suits,

Spouting scripture, bearing questionable fruits.

You're on a divine call, or so you claim,

But you're really just playing a broadcast game.

I'm the original, the genuine, the real McCoy,

So put down that mic, my boy!

(Outro)

So next time you're tempted, to grab that stand,

And preach my gospel, across the land,

Just remember who's watching, from up above,

And maybe try a little less shouting, and a little more love.

Mic drop! (Sound of a microphone clattering)

That's all from me.