The “habit” of perfection makes no sense
We may achieve perfection perhaps once.
It hurts the doubtful minds of the intense.
Around our hearts we need to build a fence
To keep away such spiritual cons
The “habit” of perfection makes no sense
Even if we live as monks or nuns
We do not leave the world when robe we don
We hurt the painful minds of the intense
We may give away our gold and even pence
But find our narcissism’s still not gone
The “habit” of perfection makes no sense
Work and individual effort’s part defence
We can try to make a space for the Unknown
Otherwise we harm the stricken hearts of the intense
To claim that we live perfectlly offends
And with it our salvation’s all but gone
The” habit” of perfection makes no sense
It hurts the doubtful minds of the intense
How my heart sings 