Who dares invade my hallowed bounds?

It is Saint Cecilia's Bane
quavering and crotcheting
his Mammon-hymns in vain!

God's weighted ear
he cannot imitate:
spilled lilies strew the floor,
roses wither in the dry chalice
tucked away under his desk.

He said:
"I can't be your Daddy,"
to tell me my mind,
taking me aside to
chide me for my
freshly-ravished soul.

Cecilia, I consecrate that place and day to you!