| Yesterday’s preacher, today’s bikini beacher
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| They’ve stolen your clerical robes and your bible’s been thrown
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| Your virgin red crown of thorns has turned to ivory horns
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| And your corner throne, it has become a coroner’s stone
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| Your crucifix you prayed on turned to jail-house bars
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| Silver chain you left out in the rain to glow with dust
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| And turned to seaweed tangled in your heart
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| Now how does it feel to pull out the nails
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| And find you still can walk?
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| Oh, you can’t feel it all from your self imposed rack on the wall
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| The tighter you drive the nails the harder you fall
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| So come on down, come off it sir you’re gonna get hurt
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| The holy water you bathe in mingles with the sewer
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| All your disciples have reclaimed their rifles and taken the cure
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| Your lectures of ways are only today’s pool room jokes
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| Remaining scrawled on the walls of tenement halls and bathroom bowls
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| As jingle bells cry «Pay us well or you’ll go to hell»
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| Freedom’s chains bind your pain and tie you well
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| But how could you know the gallows you hold weighs you down?
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| Now isn’t it boss you don’t need a cross to get around
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| Oh, you can’t feel it all from your self imposed rack on the wall
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| The tighter you drive the nails, the harder you’ll fall
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| So come on down, come off it sir you’re gonna get hurt
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| Oh your eyes that cried for mankind’s pride are covered with shades
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| As the children of God trample unshod past your mindly grave
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| New Christ, hipster, cardiac hero of 2000 years past your mind
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| He spits at your feet crying
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| «We have no need of a god, each of us is his own»
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| Yesterday’s preacher, today’s bikini beacher
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| They’ve stolen your clerical robes and your bible’s been thrown
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| Ah, you must have a cross but they’ve taken your God
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| And shot you filled with dead
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| So following new Christ, pick up on a cycle instead
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| Oh, you can’t feel it all from your self imposed rack on the wall
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| And the tighter you drive the nails, the harder you’ll fall
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| So come on down, come off it sir before you get hurt |