Missionary Position

Enter the plague-bearers throwing stones
The not-in-god's-name swearers picking through the bones
A refuge for cowards and hypocrites
Their traps are baited and their fuses lit
Preachers proselytize, and cancers metastasize
And you've been properly anesthetized

So you won't even flinch

You won't notice the unmarked graves, for the victims of their crusades
Cathedrals built on the backs of slaves

They're the salesmen adept at deception, the neighborhood thugs selling "protection"