I enter into town under cover of night, afraid there won't be space for a stranger in these swamps otherwise, between the sun and the bathtub gin. I pray my cover isn't blown by the neon lights stabbing down on the parking lot of Grandma Marie's Royal Windmill Inn. But the curtains stay closed, and the doors stay locked, all the way up and down the block, as I walk into my room to turn in. By the name of Jesus Christ, this ground shall stand clear of sin. The drawer is empty in my room's desk, but in a world of heathens I come armed to the teeth with the Truth of the Light and the Word. Flip to Job 38:3, murder my doubts lest I be the one who is questioned by the King of all that walks the Earth. It's Saturday night in Moss Bluff. The sins of this weekend, only the devil knows what, but in my soul it's always a bright Sunday morning. By the name of Jesus Christ, this ground shall stand clear of sin. By the name of Jesus Christ, this ground shall stand clear of sin.