They have little in common with the Emperor's new clothes,
They aren't spun from gold and to see them is easy

Those special coat hangers you meet at the door
Disguised as a smile or hands that say 'Squeeze me!'

On such mystical fittings a garment is left
At first you may miss its habitual weave

Don't worry! Don't fear! Nobody will nick it!
You can put it back on (if you like) when you leave.

The garment's the ego; you won't need it here
The goddess bypasses its everyday spiel

Her language is simple, profound and sincere:
Your body will die, but your soul can be healed.