| Lyrics |
Cut glass cathedralsslash holes in the airso it always is rainingwhen we kneel down in prayer.
And Christ leans and laughs. . .
Christ! He's shaking his headcos the wine's Portugeseand the bread's only bread . . .
No trance, no substance, no conscience for sureas the Pope licks a jackboot and lays down the law.
And his flock form a cross--all fall down with disease.
And the only survivorsare him and his priests.
In them thar seven hillsthere's a big crock of gold,but it's all stashed in sacksand 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.
|