Imagine

Godwin’s law for libtards.

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If this dreary song, articulating a sentiment even a beauty pageant runner-up would cringe at, sung without irony by a multimillionaire tax avoider with a shitload of possessions — such as the white grand piano in the cavernous drawing room of the stately home at he’s singing the song on, the hand-painted psychedelic Roller parked on the sweeping driveway outside — gets you through your darkest moments, heaven help you.

Except, if there’s any justice in the world, heaven won’t help you, if for no other reason than because, by your own simplistic lights, it doesn’t exist. See line 1 above, right?