Dead in the noisy church, in the universe of God, everyone's departed. Down into the impartial ground old Christian men, women, dry- dried up bones left low in the world, empty souled dust and deceit writhing now evermore. Hush! Not a pious sound! Dead in the noisy worship, in the universe of God, everyone's deceased. Twisting expressions, scornful mouths, shush thy hastening there along the pew, under the baptism’s ocean, the green grin of tooth-filled trickery under plush dresses, pink skirts and flowery hats, the posh suits, ties and gold and bursting coffers and thy organ’s droning hell coiled to serpent’s tongue, hush thy kowtowing mouths! Hush! Dead in the noisy church, in the universe of God, everyone's departed. Lifeless in the cathedral, rotting in the hymnals, the congregational affirmations, reverend, monk, priest and preacher calling out to thy listless sinnings and the lick of flaming damnation. Hush now! Hush now! Hush now! Shush thy mouths and k
(The Weaver's Song)