The Whore Of Babylon

Mirror tiles, a mirrored ceiling.
She preens, adjusts her hair.
She pouts, a wink.
The perfume stinks, it’s lovely, like fresh air.
Saints are queuing at the door: their haloes on a chain.
They’re always after more and more.
The whore of Babylon: she turns nobody away.
Nobody away.
They pay, they play, the …
fly.
It’s never straight — it’s on the floor, it’s in the kitchen.
No-one's ever bored, 'cos the whore of Babylon knows how to make a man feel
like a man.
Can you?