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.