Charmaine

Not quite priestess, not quite pain
Not quite the little girl who lives down the lane
She checks quickly, she goes sane
And you can see her right outside the window pane

She speaks Latin, she speaks Spain
And she's pure hell on that unsightly stain
She comes loudly, she comes plain
Then gives the greatest head without much strain

She sings nightly, she sings rain
She'll sing at my wake when I've been slain
Not a thing to lose, all to gain
And I love her a lot more than I'll explain.