Angels are best cast out
before that they are merely slaves
God in his fury frees them
and regrets it for the rest of days

I met one in Le Sacré-Cœur
she flew out of a frame
burned upon re-entry
she took refuge by the Seine

We ended up in Le Pigalle
in a club called Crazy Horse
she slid the pole so heavenly
bound straight for hell of course

The best is often thrown away
the best is often waste
my eyes are cast to hell I’d say
for there my senses taste

the things that God forbids us
the things he keeps for self
but I am not for keeping
his teachings on the shelf

I took her down to Sainte-Chapelle
where we spied her in the glass
she folds her face to my lapel
now the Angel’s mine at last

© Wolfgar 2018