The Maids Of Marrakesh Poem by Michael Walker

In the fetish of hashish enmeshed,
I watch the stash beneath each raven tress,
Enraptured with the maids of Marrakesh.

To think that one like them beheld the creche,
Seems to me unheard of in this mess -
I turn back from the threshold of the flesh.

I watch them wave each sash as if a lash,
As they take the cash, as they undress,
Enraptured with the maids of Marrakesh.

To think that one of them was at the Pasch,
When she dashed to His feet, her lips to press,
I turn back from the threshold of the flesh.

I watch them thrash, though we shall burn to ash,
For those who seem to be more shall be less,
Enraptured with the maids of Marrakesh.

I wish not that they kiss so much as bless,
And thus, to Jesus tenderly confess,
'Enraptured by the maids of Marrakesh,
I turn back from the threshold of the flesh.'