Swanston Street.

I know they’re hiding rockets
in the steeples of St. Pauls
So I am simply waiting
for the bricks to shake and to fall
What else could be inside them?
Those teracotta cones
I know they were designed, to be space rocket homes.
The spires are galactic compasses,
Or would one call them all compaii?
To navigate the planets, and guide rockets through the sky
Because he wasn’t made to be locked up in some grey tower
Not Jehova, Christ of Nazareth, that God of mighty power
He wasn’t as we’ve made him, this Quasimodo of religion
But a kind, eccentric genius, with a universe sized vision
So God the humble artist, whose canvas was the World
Used her galaxy sized palette, to paint each boy and girl
And once done with the Earth, she winked towards the sky
To speckle it with stars, which twinkle from on high
But now she’s in St. Pauls, barred and locked up in the attic
Collecting dust and cobwebs in the echos of the static
And I know that she’s just waiting for that bright and blessed day
When they let her hidden rockets, launch off and fly away.

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