| Holy shamoly said the priest to the girl
|
| As he wrapped his arms around her
|
| And his guts became her world
|
| She said I can’t take any more
|
| No I can’t take any more
|
| And she could taste the christ
|
| Breath the church
|
| Smell the crucifixion
|
| Of another fallen angel hooked up on false religion
|
| She’s gotta hole for a soul
|
| She’s gotta sad sad tale to tell
|
| She’s gotta hole for a soul
|
| Of being twisted in a living hell
|
| Crikey moses he said with bottle in his hand
|
| Fingers worn thin down to the bone
|
| From working on the promised land
|
| Fingers worn thin tattered and torn from scratching
|
| All this blood and sand
|
| Said I can’t take any more
|
| No I can’t take any more
|
| He had a loving wife
|
| Doting child
|
| An englishman’s castle for his home
|
| Every mile stood this broken man
|
| And every two stood this broken man’s dream
|
| He’s gotta hole for a soul
|
| He’s gotta sad sad tale to tell
|
| He’s gotta hole for a soul
|
| Of being twisted in a living hell |