I painted my nails for you, Chose red like the wine Which dripped from bread from the carpenter dying on wood, And I a whore in lace Who once was an Angel? Fallen from grace On to the tarmac sward, With eyes darker than rosary Watching your sufferance on stigmata clouds Which for forty days rain down on me in light? And for 40 nights darken me like denier. I am not Magdalene And my wombs not yellowed by life, No scriptures have been written of me. For I am no Christ. Is my name spoken in Latin? By the tongues of Angels picking splinters from the Saviour? For I am just skin, Bone Flesh And blood, Sick of a life being crucified on wood.