It's our fire now

Gloria! Gloria! Come home you birds-eye view 

from the big, humid blue, these rooftops 

scrape your paradise true as we're all 

guilty of something, not worthy of anything 

but absolution through a penal code, a 

kinky design,- our fathers' belts will do for now, 

till we're prostrate in front of You

Have pity then

Whisk us in Sulphur and Medicine Blues

and news of good prospects in space?