The heat from 150 candles is threatening to melt my famous British reserve.
The little ladies dressed in pitch are queuing up to kiss the life they deserve.

One hundred and fifty beating hearts surround this heathen lost in thought and place.
One little lady bows her head and, clutching fingers, crosses breast and face.

And the light is creeping, seeping, weeping, heavy halos bouncing flouncing faith;
And the candles flicker, bicker, golden goblins floating, gloating reaping wraith.

A mesmerising chanting voice, a prayer cast, a moment launched and lost.
An incantation, dragging dull devotion down, believe me, at all cost.

So many ways to creep into our fragile souls, our open hearts our godhead.
So many days of hopeless wishing, useless hoping, waiting for the deathbed.

And the voices slither, dither, wither, potent poison greeting, eating hope.
And the intonation, supplication, drag you, hither thither, sacred dope.

Now the priest is moving, through the crowd, scattering smoky dreams and dust.
Now the young man kisses Mary, makes the sign, breathes in a girl with lust.

Our sexy vamp, short-skirted angel, modern day madam, misplaced tonight.
Our holy virgin, pocketed protection pierces lycra dreams skin-tight.

And the incense, heady, has, already, steadily unhinged my impinged brain.
And the wicked wicker whispers, beliefs burning trickle tensely down my drain.