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Cut glass cathedrals slash holes in the air |
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so it always is raining when we kneel down in prayer |
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and Christ leans and laughs . . . Christ! |
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He's shaking his head cos the wine's Portugese and the bread's only bread . . . |
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No trance, no substance, no conscience for sure |
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as the Pope licks a jack- boot and lays down the law. |
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And his flock form a cross--all fall down with disease. |
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And the only survivors are him and his priests. |
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In them thar seven hills there's a big crock of gold, |
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but it's all stashed in sacks and belongs to a Pole. |
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And name any language, he's got something to sell, |
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but if you add it up, it's a ticket to hell. |