St. Paul spoke up on the hills of Mars
To the empty-headed Athenians;

But I would rather talk to the stars
Than to empty-headed Athenians.

It’s only too easy to cry a cult,
To cry a crusade with “Deus Vult”—

But you won’t get much of a good result
From empty-headed Athenians.

The people of London much resemble
Those empty-headed Athenians.

I could very easily make them tremble,
Those empty-headed Athenians.

A pinch of Bible, a gallon of gas,
And I, or any otherguess ass,

Could bring to our mystical moonlight mass
Those empty-headed Athenians.

In fine, I have precious little use
For empty-headed Athenians.

The birds I have snared shall all go loose;
They are empty-headed Athenians.

I thought perhaps I might do some good,
But its ten to one if I ever should—

And I doubt I would save, if I could,
Such empty-headed Athenians.

So (with any luck) I shall bid farewell
To the empty-headed Athenians.

For me, they may all of them go to hell,
For empty-headed Athenians.

I hate your idiot jolts and jars,
You monkeys grinning behind your bars—

I’m more at home with the winds and the stars
Than with empty-headed Athenians.