No more visions in hotel rooms
I just cannot take any more
There're enough weirdoes already in this world
Without you knocking on my door
Without you knocking on my door

Chorus:
Well I'm sick to the teeth, I'm sick to death
Of fanatical sects, fanatical sects, fanatical sects

And there's no god, no saviour, no miracle five-year plan
Just another doorstep salesman causing my chips to
Burn in the pan
Yes, they've burnt in the pan
And that's why
I don't wanna talk to you
You say there's only one god almighty
And I ought to come in from the cold
But you're disciples of hypocrisy
Because there's more than one prophet/profit involved


Chorus:
Well I'm sick to the teeth, I'm sick to death
Of fanatical sects, fanatical sects, fanatical sects.....