Sunday, June 7, 2009

To be read aloud in a Britsh accent.

Rush towards Death
And smack his ass when you pass him
Poor Death, he'll follow, and try to catch up
But you'll leave him winded, doubled-over
Saying: 'I've got to give up smoking.'

Light the Succubus' cigarette for her
Wink, smile, and approach unheeded
Poor Black Widow, you'll call her 'Miss'
And she'll let you fuck her unprotected
Then you'll sneak out undetected; and the next day
She'll text you: 'I haven't come like that since Sammy at Gaza.'

Tell that feeble old Goat he can have it
Spit in your hand, a hug for good measure
Poor ol' Satan, he'll think he's made a hell of a deal
But as you walk away counting the money in his wallet
Try not to laugh as he says: 'See you soon, Mr. Freely.'

Stand cross-armed before the Grand Miracle of God
Give him a suggestion, 'just a little constructive criticism'
Poor Almighty, he'll scratch his head and wonder -
The skies murmuring with brooding dark clouds -
And say: 'Damn, why hadn't I thought of that?'

Flee from Rapture
Find your Father and Mother
Find your friends, your sisters, your brothers
Poor Loved Ones, they will be on their knees in repentance
But you'll know better. And you'll help them up.
Help them to their feet, and say:
'Let's just hang out down here and see what happens.'

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