It's heaven sent, this miracle soprano you employ
That makes an angel of a boy, earthbound.
My soul took wing upon the sound.
I guess I still can't face the implications of this gift.
There's something pagan in the lift -- airborne.
And why should soul from flesh be torn?
That's what it costs to buy a note so pure and high
And so divine: no s** in heaven.
The bottom line: no s** in heaven. Where do I sign?
Then came the man whose eyes professed the love that we had sought;
A love that's never to be caught or held.
Some ancient pact can't be dispelled. What's the surprise?
The storied sacrifice is often told: that this perfection must be cold,
And hard -- where once we joined by scalpel scarred.
What gimpy God aflame with jealous rage decreed that you
Like him must be unwhole; allowed to yearn?
But if the need that you profess is once returned,
You slap it down! (If I should ask, and I always ask.)
I guess I still can't help the sickened impulse to admire
The score that this castrati choir translates
That soothes as it emasculates.