اصل بول
ENترجمہ ابھی دستیاب نہیں۔ اصل بول دکھائے جا رہے ہیں۔
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'sonly 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.
