Προσοχή στους στίχοι, ολίγον αναχρονιστικοί, αλλά δε βαριέσαι βρε αδερφέ, ας γίνομε και ημείς έναν ξάϊ ρετρό.
People what have you done:
locked Him in His golden cage.
Made Him bend to your religion
Him resurrected from the grave
from the grave.
He is the god of nothing
if that's all that you can see.
You are the god of everything
He's inside you and me.
So lean upon Him gently
and don't call on Him to save you
from your social graces
and the sins you used to waive.
The bloody Church of England
in chains of history
requests your earthly presence at
the vicarage for tea.
And the graven image you-know-who
with His plastic crucifix
he's got him fixed
confuses me as to who and where and why
as to how he gets his kicks.
Confessing to the endless sin
the endless whining sounds.
You'll be praying till next Thursday to
all the gods that you can count.