It’s late, we must theology adjourn
I hope you’ll not offence take, or infer
That I for cruder, pagan doctrines yearn
Or your Head Gardener rate as some voyeur
Before you leave, impurities foresworn
To tropic Cancer, I to Capricorn
I ask, I hope, you do not fluctuate
Your wine it seems to ripple, palpitate
A voltage, I confess, runs through my spine
There’s figs and olives, still, upon the plate
The bottle’s empty, sweetheart, I’ll fetch wine,

Then scuttle from the Word unto the urn
And all my joys and appetites inter
Or let me every gospel truth unlearn
My flesh takes them as slander, crime and slur
Your body’s more than chaff to spirit’s corn
Why starve the ruby vine to feed the thorn?
Your Testament will leave us intestate
Whilst mine will nourish, sweet as ripened date
Don’t speak, don’t wink to which path you incline
In silence, sweetheart, repossess your fate
Just proffer up your glass if you choose wine.


The path that leads to lover, friend and mate
Is choked with man-made walls innumerate
But fling your holy water to the brine
Nail up your creed in some cramped, dusty crate
And tumble into bed, forget the wine.