Fire and Ire at a Bar Called Babylon

Madonna sang while the whores of Babylon danced--
lesbian women bathed in a fire of seductive, colored light.
The sacrosanct song of pseudo-Catholic iconography
spawning my ire helplessly,
fixed my gazing upon their exposed,
tempting sacra laid bare in mortal flesh.
I secretly prayed their assured damnation--
silently wishing for their depravity to become attrition.

One whore's heals struck the dance floor rhythmically
pulsing to and fro, and writhing her body into seductive gyrations
her delicate feet adorned in healed, black and white stirrups,
her partner's gaze of adoration was transfixed by a mere
speculum--reciprocated desires reflected in sporadic movements
as four sinuous hands correlated and caressed the air.
Vertiginous partners, all-all a spontaneously choreographed burlesque.

Off the dance floor they were braver now pondering,
asking questions--ogling eyes darting above their smoking cigarettes.
Abased in the intricacies of depraved relationships
I overheard
I bit my tongue
I said nothing to the swarming whores
to the infidels scourging away my manhood
quicker than the Romans had ever mortified Jesus.

Our Lady of Fatima came to me in mercy
resting her divine mind on mine while
lesbian whores sat and pondered equality as
I departed them briefly to ask my Irish
bastard friend behind the bar
to pour me a drink. "John Paul, have another on me,"
my Irish friend said, standing behind the bar,
relegating my thoughts from contemplating sin.

"American Relativism does not allow us to judge," I said,
and me and he, my Irish friend and I, threw back the shots--both in acquiesce.
"But snakes aren't driven out unless someone deems them evil,"
my Irish friend said unto me, casting in front of us a paired shot of whiskey.
And I looked at the slithery bodies of the whores of Babylon from afar
and prayed for tolerance
and was inspired to temperance--
they'd arisen to dance some more.