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.