David, you were such a powerful king.
Your mother always jumped when she heard the telephone ring.
Watched from your tower, ordered taxies to the vacant garage.
Illusions of power, thirsty wanderer to the mirage. David.

Could fill your stomach; your wine breathed a little too much.
The voyeur of mikvahs, sure you’d watch—said you never would touch.
You lowered into the water, helped her scrub the blood from her thighs,
and made an honest woman through an honest man’s lies. David.

Should I feel lucky? Should I feel vindicated?
Didn’t think you’d group me in with all the things you hated.
But don’t say you’re sorry when you’d build your cities with Bathsheba again.

Every man falls, even all these great men of God.
All worship Baal, build their temples out of the sod.
There are no more letters, not a crown nor a biblical verse
to give meaning to memory, the humans most searing dessert. David.

Should I feel lucky? Should I feel vindicated?
Didn’t think you’d group me in with all the things you hated.
But I can’t say I’m sorry when you’d build your cities with Bathsheba again.
But don’t say you’re sorry when you’d build your cities with Bathsheba again.
You’d build your cities with Bathsheba again.