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.