Mirror tiles, a mirrored ceiling. She preens, adjusts her hair. She pouts, a wink. The perfume stinks, it's lovely, like fresh air. Saints are queuing at the door: their haloes on a chain. They're always after more and more. The whore of Babylon: she turns nobody away. Nobody away. They pay, they play, the ...?... fly. It's never straight - it's on the floor, it's in the kitchen. No-one's ever bored, 'cos the whore of Babylon knows how to make a man feel like a man. Can you?