A Strychnine Kiss

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

'cause the wine's Portuguese

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.