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