The mark of Judas.
Funny about best friends, huh, Lord?
Always up in your face laughing and talking, leading the praise
after your miracles.
That Judas, she had great hopes for him.
Good background, good looking, even in a corduroy suit
made in Poland and $30 shoes.
It was his quiet appeal that kept the group in wine money.
As soon as you turn your back, he took your business
to the goyim.
Told him, you going around telling everybody
you're the Son of God.
You see how careful you have to be about whom
you go bar hopping with Jesus?
Now you're drowsy, Jesus.
They pricked you full of thorazine.
They've given you electroconvulsive therapy.
You don't know where you are.
You have sores where the straitjacket doesn't fit.
You're wringing wet from where you've been sweating all night.
You squirm on filthy straw.
But stick it out, Jesus.
Where you're going, the drums don't stop.
They serve Napa Valley champagne at every meal.
Everybody smokes big cigars.
Sweet angel hair be tingling your back
while you invent proverbs in a hot tub.
Where Judas is going, the people don't know how to fix ribs.
Their biscuits taste like baking soda.
The wine is sweet and sticky.
Flowers can't grow on this landscape of jinxed arts.
The field of blood, to this day it's called the Field of Blood.