They're campaigning from the bell-tower,
All their faceless heads are twins.
As they vow to save those poor poor souls
They laugh and stroke their chins.

The priest is pleased with their business,
For they, any holy place will suffice.
Free publicity and forged ballot slips
After all, was the message of Christ.

And down below, and out of reach,
And being saved by noone at all.
In the gutter, laughing at a drainpipe
Are me and the Cyanide Whore.

---

The businessman, he's happy,
His ties are silk: they told him so.
But when he steps out from his Silver Studio tonight
He knows he's got no place to go.

He bows to feet in a fit of self-pity,
Of his importance he's no mind of his own.
With leech's hands he'll reach to stop
Himself being so alone.

He'll cross the tracks, from the watchful eye,
Of his peers and their uniforms of gold.
Into plain-clothes alley, to the locked up house
Where almost anything can be sold.

--- EDIT

Three lipstick girls of the evening,
Asleep behind pantomime eyes.
When i stop to watch them passing
I wonder if they're still alive.

Their duty is kept quite simple,
Girls, no need for worry or afraid.
For though you eat well now, by twenty-five
Your livelyhood will have paid.

And the beauty of, one skinny girl,
Her religion remembered no more.
With noose in hand she has no thoughts
For herself or the Cyanide Whore.