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   Because the wine's Portugese   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 there 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