Save us, O Lord, from these temperamental men, and their fragile mediocrity. Why, Lord, why did you make them so sensitive? Did their hearts need to be so close to the surface? Fetch up the scissors, and ready the tirade, Lord: all is not right. How can they create when all is not right?

Please don’t make them drop the mic, Lord.

The times they live in are the worst, Lord, and the day they are having…well, they don’t deserve that, do they? The sound isn’t right and the shirts aren’t right and the crowd is just too fucking dumb for words, O Lord. Forgive them their tantrums that they have already forgiven themselves for.

There will be tantrums.

Shape their apologies, Lord. Guide their fingers, and watch for typos. Don’t let them dissemble, double-down, or dig deeper, Lord. Make the world understand that, if anything, they care too much. O Lord, pave the way for their next afternoon slot on a mid-level festival, or next start on the way to a 13-11 season.

All they ask is what they’re entitled, O Lord.