The arms that you cut off that Sunday night

of the youngman who ran screaming through the street

streaming blood in trails of terror

are the arms that point me to my door

which forsaken by the blood of Jesus

invites the Devil, who now waits for me outside

The arms that you cut off that Sunday night

are the arms that point me to the red eyes

of the pentecostal killers and the black eyes

of the roman catholic killers and the blue eyes

of the pinhead skinhead killers

and the dirty angel does his target practice night and day

making ready now to steal my soul away

while the winks and smiles of singing debutantes and eunuchs whisper

"We don't want you, Unclean, lying there in vomit, filth and perspiration,

coming back with Jesus or with Elvis from the dead"