No more visions in hotel rooms
I just cannot take any more
There's 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, of fanatical sects, of 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
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
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
Of fanatical sects, fanatical sects, fanatical sects
Of fanatical sects, fanatical sects, fanatical sects