Make me chaste and continent, but not yet.

How long, how long, this ‘tomorrow and tomorrow’? Why not finish this very hour with my uncleanness?

I lived a life in which I was seduced and seducing, deceived and deceiving, the prey of various desires.

I had a pony.

Her name was Lucifer.

Howmuchhowmuchhowmuchlonger?

…She broke her leg and needed shooting. I swear it hurt me more than it could have hurted her.

Temptation’s flame is very angry indeed.  I yield to it, and I get to name it Satan, and the partner of my sin, she’s the very demon itself, but I know good from evil–and god I tell you, it hurt to lose her and it hurt to destroy her, but I did what I had to do. I swear, and I suffer–I still have a soul, don’t I? 

Meanwhile my sins were being multiplied.

Instead I liked to excuse myself and accuse something else–something that was in me, but was not really I.

Sometimes I wonder what’s going on with Miss X.

Howmuchhowmuchhowmuchlonger?

She got such a sweet disposition, I never know what the poor girl’s going to do to me next.

And every time I pass that way, I always hear my name. That gun is still smoking, and they still won’t leave me alone. Miss X, one X or another, these sweet dispositions, these honey traps, they’re wily, I can’t outguess them. I fall like prey, I can’t be blamed.

I got a new pony.

She knows how to foxtrot, lope, and pace.

Howmuchhowmuchhowmuchlonger? She got great big hind legs, long shaggy hair hanging in her face.

That Miss X–oh god, what this new pony can do! And look at her!  Make me chaste…but not yet.

People say you’re using voodoo.

I seen your feet walk by themselves.

Howmuchhowmuchhowmuchlonger?

But baby, that god that you been praying to gonna give you back what you’re wishing on someone else.

The morals of despair. I’m lost, and I can’t know I’m Lost unless I can still suffer for not being Found. That new pony, she belongs to a trickster god, a god that throws your prayers in your face, a god of magic, a god of bodies without spirits. Don’t think I can’t tell the difference. …But not yet. 

Come over here pony, I want to climb up one time on you.

Howmuchhowmuchhowmuchlonger? 

You’re so nasty and you’re so bad.

But I love you yes, I do.

By these thoughts I was thrust down again and choked; but I was not brought down so low as to that hell of error where no one confesses to you… It’s not voodoo and it’s not snares, and I might have walked past that door when I heard my name called out, but not yet…. It’s my lust and my sin and my ’Yes’, and why not finish this very hour with my uncleanness?  Because there’s this pony right here….