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