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