I: In which Mephistopheles contemplates his fall from grace, while awaiting his next sinner.
These abhorrent artifices,
- shoulder-pads fit for a tailor’s nightmare -
these scapula scabs,
how they curse my coital posturing
to my least favourite -
the missionary!
Too singed and shrivelled
to allow me blessed flight,
these duckling stumps
scorn and mock my graceless fall,
all because I dared be little less than angelic.
“Out! Offend We no more!”
Have I gone a little far, Lord? I whimpered.
I had, so here I stew.
Interminably.
Shall I compare this to a heaven’s day?
Pardon. Please.
I strive too hard. Forgive my gabble.
How I thank heaven for hell’s prick, though,
generous compensation for lack of Him,
is what I say! Firm help in whittling
away hours of molten misery
while I wait to greet my meat.
Marrow, blood and guts…mine!
Accursed soul with halitosis…I hand that over
with disgust!
Personally, I relish a certain bald-pated philandering bard,
spitting global drivel
so luscious to his fellow thesps -
Luscious enough for me,
I vouch, peppered
and skewered!
Hark now! Quiet! Ssh!
Listen. My bell tinkles.
A foolish mortal summons me. Who?
Not my preferred quill peddler, I confess,
though a plump professor of acclaim, no less.
Dulled by his own ivory-towered arrogance,
this one bemuses and amuses to tempt fickle fate.
Oh glad fool!
Mephistopheles welcomes you!
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