Now the altar has ripped
The pages off the holy writ
And has forced it down
The throats of the thirsty pew.
They came like flock
On a pasture looking for water
To quench their thirst;
But have been given vegetable oil.
What is left of the Son
Is just an empty cross
Hanging or
Drawn on the massive walls
By a pagan artist.
The greasy haired preacher
With his imported accent,
Has stunned God again and again.
And in the chapel
Just like in a stinking cattle farm,
The cows are impenitently milked
And God looks on in utter shock.
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