Every Sunday you sit in wooden seats,
Pretending to adore God and his feats.
Parents cry for mercy on their souls.
Kids pray for Christmas without coals.
Priests linking you to the almighty one,
Are accused of fucking your beloved son.
High society can worship on its knees,
Praying that its mistakes no one sees.
A teen asleep will soon take her life,
And another man has just shot his wife.
Yet most faithful men have never said,
They're reconciling failed lives led.
If the good people only attended mass,
Empty would be the cash plates you pass.
Faces that should soon be seen in hell,
Are masked by the ring of a church bell.
Fold bloody hands and portray you pray,
No prayer can wipe the conscience away.
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