Pocket Bible

Raise the crosses on the hill
Slay the aboriginals
Sharp minds now lackadaisical
False light bends their will

From chariots the highborn glare
Their soulless glance a vapid state
False gods, a pointless existence
Unmoved by empty prayers

So c'mon string us up
You fascist motherfuckers
On the cross
The masses love dead martyrs
Bleed us thin
There will always be another

Bleating sheep
One eye for another
They'll drink their fill
While we master how to suffer
Who's penned in
When butcher comes to slaughter?