Cut glass cathedrals

slash holes in the air

so it always is raining

when we kneel down in prayer.

And Christ leans and laughs. . .

Christ! He's shaking his head

cos the wine's Portugese

and the bread's only bread . . .

No trance, no substance, no conscience for sure

as the Pope licks a jackboot and lays down the law.

And his flock form a cross--

all fall down with disease.

And the only survivors

are him and his priests.

In them thar seven hills

there's a big crock of gold,

but it's all stashed in sacks

and belongs to a Pole.

And name any language,

he's got something to sell,

but if you add it up,

it's a ticket to hell.

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