Her Bible was a crown of thorns,
Her prayer debarred a mate,
She never saw the beast with horns
Who piped away her fate.
Her beauty blossomed like a tree
Whose fruit for man was ripe,
But, though she hankered after me,
She couldn't hear him pipe.
The Cross she bore was never raised,
The flesh was never torn,
And though of God she always praised,
Proud Pan would tap a horn.
He tapped the louder when, one day,
A lady's man passed near.
Oh God, with beauty plucked away,
No favours did she hear!
Instead she heard the pipes of Pan,
And though she blocked her ears
She knew her lover was no man,
The piper kissed her tears.