Classic Poem

Here I taste the foul stale air of heaven
As I write telling of how heaven's roof
Pressed down on me as I walked the aisle
Upon the altar where a million called
Master master master and Lord Lord Lord
And the gargoyles spat and bit off their hands
And the birds screeched the angels have gone gone
And the postcard merchants asked have you any.

In America like this meaning
The Duomo and the half-shown postcard depends
Whether you are male or female I shake
My head and say America is uptown
And downtown overhead and underground
But we can't get it on a postcard yet.