by Nick Gisburne
If I can smell you, Demon, so will they.
You stink of stale cigars and blistered skin.
That underlying odour of decay
Needs pulling out, or pushing further in.
Your colour? Always loved it. Blood and black,
A timeless, classic combination. Fine.
But all that pagan magic on your back?
No spells. I mean it. I will snap your spine.
The claws can stay, the horns will have to go.
I’m thinking what to about your tail.
I know it took you seven years to grow,
But sitting on a stump is not a fail.
It’s Christmas, so relax, they’re just my folks.
They’re Mormons, though. No booze. No Jesus jokes.
