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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 From Letras Mania