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 Jack- Boot 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.