by Nick Gisburne
It’s fun day, Sunday. Satan’s on the beach,
Relaxing after brutal weeks of work.
His gruesome tools of torment out of reach,
Beelzebub allows himself a smirk.
Collecting fallen souls can be a bore.
The paper trail would make Jehovah weep.
An ever-stronger stream of sinners pour,
While God Above, the slacker, counts his sheep.
Today the Prince of Darkness twists his toes
In white, delightful sands, the skulls he crushed.
The sea of blood. The waves of pain. He knows
The pleasures of damnation can’t be rushed.
He fills a glass with tortured spirits, neat.
Depravity has never smelled so sweet.
