Whiskey Confessional

There’s a cross on the wall and a tab by my hand,

One’s got mercy, one understands.

Bartender’s the priest, pourin’ my creed,

Every sip’s a sin that my soul still needs.

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I find God in the bottom of a fifth of rye,

He don’t say much, but He don’t lie.

These pews are stools, this prayer’s a curse,

Every shot’s a sermon, every line’s a verse.

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This is my whiskey confessional,

Where the holy turns regretful.

Yeah, the truth don’t cleanse, it stings instead,

I drink to the living, I toast the dead.

Ain’t no angels here, just me and my mistakes—

Salvation burns going down this way.

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I ain’t proud, but I ain’t done,

Still paying tabs for what love’s begun.

She left her halo on my bed,

Now I wear the devil in my head.

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Raise your glass if you’ve been saved by sin,

If pain’s the preacher that pulled you in.

Forgiveness don’t come, but the whiskey does,

And it tells the truth better than love ever was.

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This is my whiskey confessional,

Where the lies feel professional.

Yeah, the truth don’t heal, it burns instead,

I drink to the lost, I curse the blessed.

Ain’t no heaven calling my name tonight—

Just the hum of neon and a bourbon light.

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So pour one more for the faith I waste,

For every sin I learned to taste.

Crawlback’s gospel, make no mistake—

I don’t repent, I marinate.