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!


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.