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New martyrs swinging in the wind. The dead eyes searching for messiahs in |
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the stars. The bodies carrying the scars of no confession, no concession. |
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No sympathy. The laughter from the front row buzzing loudly now in bars, |
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over chicken in a basket, in the darkest corners of the Central Station. |
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Passing round the spirit that drove Rommel to his desert hole, smashed |
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diamonds, stripped the gold from hidden cities in Brazil. And killed the |
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savage in the name of Mary... Burn the witch, whip the bitch who shows her |
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ankles on the Sabbath. Bring the kids aged 1 to 63 - the family treat. |
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Maybe there will be a vision of messiahs in the stars. Now all confess and |
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make a wish. The priest is passing round the dish...our Lady's selling |
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tissues for the tears, for all the years of blessed rape in the name of |
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our sweet lord. |
