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Ever observed how straight-forward it is
To stand over the unchatised
In our Sunday best
To laugh inside with bitter scorn
At their dirty rags

To prey on the harlet
Who with her shapely breasts
Invites the hungry, poor and the blind
To her feast

To be a Pharisee with longwinded and eloquent prayers
To all that must lend an ear
For with these a picture tells a million words of endless regret
The scribe in his foolish wisdom
Who is a rotting corpse burning inside

Old Jolly Rodger preys on the weakest fish in the sea
But it is the young or old that he sees
What is the point of living a lie
Are we not pittied above all men
Wouldn't it be better to give up the race
And give in to her itch that you feel you need to scratch
We are not tiny compartments
Inside an ever shrinking box
Just open your eyes