The heap of Saturday night gig is heavy on Tunde
The weight is deaf to the sound of the church bells
He’s cold on bed; last night was as hot as hell
Even the birds of the air know it’s Sunday

Yes Sunday, a special day in the week
The urge of attending church is a mast in his heart
He’s high on sleep, still on shoes and hat
His spirit is willing but his flesh is weak

For the hurdles of life, Sunday is a tonic
On a Sunday morning, Tunde is born again
But at night, he is watching porn again
His partial contact to God has been chronic

His door sticker shouts “I am a winner”
But in the hood, he’s the only church man
Of his entire friends, he’s the only church fan
In church with saints, at home with sinners

He drinks, smokes, womanizes and such
Sin is a burden, he’s strapped to the load
The worst place to stand is the middle of the road
Tuned give your life to Christ and not to church