Chartres-Sur-Cher

Their words cooled from flame to stone
But ours could not: A merry song
Was pure booze, and parted thighs which
Poured a saltier ooze. We kept
Attending mass but out behind
The town we burrowed down, to build
Apt sanctuary for Your lust,
Missal pages wide enough to
Praise You in the hottest tongue You
Bid us sing. For centuries we
Harrowed here the womb of black
Desires, confessing none of them
In town. It made apt Christians of us,
Holy high and low: And though they tried
To seal the door, You songs survived.