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.