I am the nail that you can’t strike 
I am the spear that [bad word] you through 

And when the shots were falling we were sound asleep 
And you filled your palms with dirty bombs 
Instead of hand-grenades 

I am teeth which cannot bite 
I’ll tear your garden up by the roots 

And when the shots were falling we were sound asleep 
And you filled your palms with dirty bombs 
Instead of hand-grenades 

Hear the seven bell tolls 
Ringing loud for you 
Coroners and vultures 
Cry out, “Gloria!” 

All across the valley 
Onward towards the sun 
The two-bit prophet sways and 
Pulls a price from everyone 

Feel the heavy hoof-beats 
Pound across the land 
The sin of our forefathers 
Lies within our clutching hands 

Watch the planes pass over 
Hear its call-to-arms 
The golden [bad word] of morning 
Made me straight my bended knee