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