Julian Cope Follow

The saddest place in the world for a heathen,
Is this place, let's burn it down,
Ooh, what a storm made a delivery - here's Saul the tax collector,
Why didn't you all just let him drown?
This is the tale of St. Paul,
And of how he was shipwrecked on those Maltese rocks far below,
Hear my account of the unwritten Bugibba priesthood;
Who saved his life that millions might die when they let him go.

And one dissenting priest says:
“And in that heathen light,
I caught your name
And in that heathen light,
I caught your name.
And in that heathen light,
I caught your name”

The tax collector was sailing to Rome,
And in chains in the hold, as the empire's enemy,
Oozing with hatred and purest contempt for the women's religions
And all of their mystery.

And one dissenting priest says:
“And in that heathen light,
I caught your name
And in that heathen light,
I caught your name
And in that heathen light,
I caught your name
And in that heathen light,
I caught your name.”

Then to the strangers of Ephesus, Saul took the message of Christ,
But he made it all his own,
Thereafter, he took the name of St. Paul,
And the Nazarene's word was perverted from that day on,
Changes were made, yes,
But change is perfunctory unless those changes are acted upon,
Huge was the debt the new patriarchal religions owned to the Tarsian turncoat,
For he - not Jesus - was their true Son.

“And in that heathen light,
I caught your name
And in that heathen light,
I caught your name
And in that heathen light,
That's when I caught your name
And in that heathen light,
I caught your name.

I caught your name
I caught your name”