[Spoken:]
I'd like to say before singing this controversial song, take 32,
that this isn't about anybody's God in specific; on account of
some of my best friends are gods. This is about New Christ
Cardiac Hero, who was the latest hero and the latest leader of
the younger generation.
[Sung:]
Yesterday's preacher, today's bikini beacher,
They've stolen your clerical robes and your Bible's been thrown.
Your virgin red crown of thorns has turned to ivory horns.
And your corner throne, it has become a coroner's stone.
Your crucifix you prayed on turned to jail-house bars.
Silver chain you left out in the rain to glow with dust,
An' turned to seaweed tangled in your heart.
Now how does it feel to pull out the nails?
And find you still can walk?
Oh, you can't feel at all,
From your self-imposed rack on the wall.
The tighter you drive the nails,
The harder you'll fall.
So come on down, come on off it, sir,
You're gonna get hurt.
Oh, the holy water you bathe in mingles with the sewer.
All your disciples have reclaimed their rifles and taken the cure.
Your lectures of ways are only today's poolroom jokes,
Remaining scrawled on the walls of tenement halls and bathroom bowls.
As jingle bells cry, "Pay us well or you'll go to hell."
Freedom's chains, they bind your pain and tie you well.
But how could you know the gallows you hold weighs you down?
Now isn't it boss you don't need a cross to get around.
Oh, you can't feel at all,
From your self-imposed rack on the wall.
The tighter you drive the nails,
The harder you'll fall.
So come on down, come on off it, sir,
You're gonna get hurt.
Oh your eyes that cried for mankind's pride are covered with shades,
As the children of God trample unshod past your mindly grave.
New Christ, hipster cardiac hero of 2000 years past your mind,
He spits at your feet crying, "We have no need of a god,
Each of us is his own."
Yesterday's preacher, today's bikini beacher,
They've stolen your clerical robes and your Bible's been thrown.
Oh, you must have a cross but they've taken you,
God, and shot you filled with dead.
So following new Christ, pick up on a cycle instead.
Oh, you can't feel at all,
From your self-imposed rack on the wall.
The tighter you drive the nails,
The harder you'll fall.
So come on down, come on off it, sir,
Before you get hurt.
I'd like to say before singing this controversial song, take 32,
that this isn't about anybody's God in specific; on account of
some of my best friends are gods. This is about New Christ
Cardiac Hero, who was the latest hero and the latest leader of
the younger generation.
[Sung:]
Yesterday's preacher, today's bikini beacher,
They've stolen your clerical robes and your Bible's been thrown.
Your virgin red crown of thorns has turned to ivory horns.
And your corner throne, it has become a coroner's stone.
Your crucifix you prayed on turned to jail-house bars.
Silver chain you left out in the rain to glow with dust,
An' turned to seaweed tangled in your heart.
Now how does it feel to pull out the nails?
And find you still can walk?
Oh, you can't feel at all,
From your self-imposed rack on the wall.
The tighter you drive the nails,
The harder you'll fall.
So come on down, come on off it, sir,
You're gonna get hurt.
Oh, the holy water you bathe in mingles with the sewer.
All your disciples have reclaimed their rifles and taken the cure.
Your lectures of ways are only today's poolroom jokes,
Remaining scrawled on the walls of tenement halls and bathroom bowls.
As jingle bells cry, "Pay us well or you'll go to hell."
Freedom's chains, they bind your pain and tie you well.
But how could you know the gallows you hold weighs you down?
Now isn't it boss you don't need a cross to get around.
Oh, you can't feel at all,
From your self-imposed rack on the wall.
The tighter you drive the nails,
The harder you'll fall.
So come on down, come on off it, sir,
You're gonna get hurt.
Oh your eyes that cried for mankind's pride are covered with shades,
As the children of God trample unshod past your mindly grave.
New Christ, hipster cardiac hero of 2000 years past your mind,
He spits at your feet crying, "We have no need of a god,
Each of us is his own."
Yesterday's preacher, today's bikini beacher,
They've stolen your clerical robes and your Bible's been thrown.
Oh, you must have a cross but they've taken you,
God, and shot you filled with dead.
So following new Christ, pick up on a cycle instead.
Oh, you can't feel at all,
From your self-imposed rack on the wall.
The tighter you drive the nails,
The harder you'll fall.
So come on down, come on off it, sir,
Before you get hurt.