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 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.