A Strychnine Kiss Lyrics

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