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.