Vicky

Dancers are ill at ease, with spiritual gain, it molests their release, with ladies, girls and women, I feel their technical gaze, am sweating like an oven, Our Lady holds the beam, on cold lit Sundays, no matter what they sing, my Ma is all scorn, lost within her ways, forgets what I adore, she'll invite herself along, chant without praise, my most precious songs, on trips to the sea , you won't wear grey, no need to argue, where love has no shame.