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!
Hes shaking his head cos the wines Portugese and the breads 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 theres a big crock of gold,
but its all stashed in sacks and belongs to a Pole.
And name any language, hes got something to sell,
but if you add it up, its a ticket to hell.