Poem

THE POISONED WINDS ARE STRIVING THROUGH MY LAND,
NO MAN WOULD FIGHT, WOULD RAISE A HAND.
A PEACE OF FALSEHOOD MAKES THEM FEEL WARM,
NO DANGER COMES UP, WOULD DO THEM A HARM.

COME LISTEN TO THE LYING PRIESTS.

A STRANGE SILENCE CRAWLS ACROSS MY TOWN,
WHERE A LYING PREACHER WEARS A CROWN.
AND NEVER GET THE CLOUDS AWAY,
NEVER, LIKE THE PREACHERS SAY

COME LISTEN TO THE LYING PRIESTS.

COME GO WITH ME, LETS BREAKING OUT,
TO TELL THE TRUTH, TO CRY, TO SHOUT.
AND MAKE AN END WITH ALL THE POPES,
OR BURY ALL THE PEOPLE HOPES.

THEN LISTEN TO THE DYING PRIESTS.
THEN LISTEN TO THE DYING PRIESTS.