We're the arrows that God uses for his bow, and most of the time, he's missing

He's drunk in his backyard and blindly picking us up from the dirt ground

He's just about to shoot when his favorite song comes on and he unsteadily twirls around

After a while, he's sobering up and makes one close to the bullseye

This is his queue to grab another drink

We wait, sprawled around in the dirt, surrounded by mounds of trinkets and trash, hoping he'll give us another shot.