The Dancer The heaven hangs low today just above the spire of the village church which is cold and closed now since the priest hung himself in the vestry. He drank you see, lifted his cassock and danced. completely lost respect, they had humiliated him the men in the bar knowing he was ill they plied him with drinks till he behaved like a drunken tart. The bishop came remonstrated with the fallen priest who promised to behave and for some time he was often seen prone on the floor before the cross. Pale, suffering etched in his thin, yet still handsome face, women thought he looked like Jesus Christ. Breeze from the open window the last waltz he danced alone.