The crucifix on your wall,
makes you weak at the knees,
the professor locked in the basement,
says he has a cure for your disease,
you philistine, you, burning those books,
take a look outside as consequence scorns you,
and the seagulls, they are a-laughing,
where on this earth are you going to?
 
While two shadows bleed out in the alley,
Over the hill the steeple is a-calling,
the old lady in velvet is already there,
doesn't that wine just taste apalling?
Nietzsche and Darwin fidget beneath,
whilst you all sing entranced as one,
and in the wind is that pollen scent,
and the torment of old memories gone.
 
The un-wed ***** outside the jazz club,
where the men play cards till the clock sleeps,
is wondering where He really is,
but does your heaven have room for creeps?
Suffocated by the antediluvian dogma,
though you of course blindly unaware,
of the reality behind your clasped hands,
mesmerised, committed, to his crucified stare.