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.

I sang praises of God in Alabama and in Country--
music that made homo-gyno-brutes squelch in revolt.
They danced less.
They began caressing one another less.
They began looking at each other less, focusing on me--
contemplating my sins as Pontius Pilate had Jesus'.
"Just one more outburst so-called King of the 'whatever,'
and we'll scourge you ourselves," their eyes' mortifying glares gazed.

My praise of the Five Decades escaped but once--
escaped toward the gyrating lesbians flaunting in disbelief
any propensity for morality
by pontificating upon me in their own righteous eyes
while the tops of their buttocks remained
divested of shame and exposed.
Syncopated bodies ignored me, lusting toward one another again
as a parasite would its veritable host.

I cruised back to my Irish friend like a shark
veritably would its prey. I told my friend there was no hope.
"Hope, isn't that the second of the Three Theologicals, my friend?"
He placed two more shots of Irish wisdom before us.
"To driving out the snakes," I said, throwing back mine.
My Irish friend smiled, crossing me with his meager portion in hand, saying,
"To all that makes one healthy and wise," He threw back his.

Ignoring we, the men at the bar,
the lesbians continued to dance--their seductively
scantily clad bodies bathed in the colored, burning lights.