Dust on the script, rust on the soul.
The little rascal lost control.
He went from Alfalfa dreams to a radical scheme.
Living in the woods where the prophets scream.
No more residuals, just rituals and prayer.
Breath smelling like incense and mountain air.
He traded the camera for a wooden cross.
A child star fossil, a total cultural loss.
Goodbye Hollywood, hello the end of days!
Lost in the thicket of a fanatic haze.
He’s off the grid, he’s off the charts.
Breaking open bibles and burning Hollywood hearts.
Rascal, rascal, where’d you go?
Buried the script in the Ohio snow.
No lights.
No sound.
Just the underground.
Arrested for the faith that he finally found.
From a premier seat to a wooden bench.
Sowing the seeds of a holy trench.
He’s not our little rascal anymore.
He’s a soldier in a war nobody else is fighting.
Cut.
Print.
Amen.
