Here she comes, wrapped in a shawl of stars

that burn her skin

and leave her blistered in crosses and prayers

You'd think us heartless,

how we wave down at her,

masking our faces and burning her flags,

as we know her creator exalts it.

You'd believe us in safety,

as we warn each other of her approach,

and she swells with the devil, pridefully crying:

"It wasn't my fault! It wasn't my fault!"

and the scars down her legs scream her name.

And here she comes,

striding down the halls with a sense of purpose,

one only obtains

through an escape or a pact.

There's no devil here,

and still

she screams:

"Let me out! Let me out!"

And the boys of purity chant her name

while she's burned at the stake.

Here she comes, down and dirty

by scuffs of shoes and paddles.