With pine and panatela hanging heavy in the air,
The orders come obliquely from the shadows of the chair;
And to all those who complain that his justice is unfair
He blinks his eyes
And someone dies.
But he's happy now, at least.
He prays not for religion, but he cries for the priest.
His sword, his sable spirit, they manoeuvre high above
The night the servant is punishing the dove.
And to all those who remain to soak up all his love,
He looks so good
As he drinks the blood
That they offer at the feast.
Then he prays, not for religion, but he cries for the priest.
Hanging in between the abstainer and the drunk,
From high upon the hill into the depths he has sunk.
His cast and his Company have bundled up the trunk
And quickly found
Some higher ground
'Til the rain and the thunder have ceased.
They pray not for religion but they cry for the priest.
It's a bitter smoke that rises where only anger burns.
No judgements are suspended, no matter who adjourns.
And who will feign amazement when in triumph he returns,
A mere device,
A sacrifice
To lay before the beast
With a prayer, not for religion, but a cry for the priest.