Tears on the mausoleum floor and you know that’s for a king,
Blood stains on the colosseum doors for the slave who wasn’t worth pin.
With lies on the lips of priests,
And Thanksgiving ceremony of the nailing of a carpenter to a cross disguised as a feast,
The hypocrisy of these times ain’t lost on me.
I am stuck wondering if a thug’s prayers will now reach
Or if Pius is pious because God loves pious,
Or God loves pious because Pius is pious.
I am not even sure
But I guess if even a little bit of this hypocrisy will be in heaven
Then perhaps I’ll be better of in hell.
That I am very sure of.