The aging priest nevermore sleeps at night.
He stands step-top, lighted candle in hand,
dressed in black sweat suit, prepped for the last fight,
waving a rapier like Mandrake’s wand,
constantly calling the devil upstairs.
I’ve dipped the blade in holy water, he
whispers over lunch. Then breaks breadsticks, swears
he’ll insult Beelzebub by merely
calling him Bubba. Warns he’ll wrestle him,
like St. Pio fighting at Marcone,
or Michael whacking him, winning heaven.
These films of his power, pure baloney,
the old man spews. I’ll prick his red ass soon.
He’ll flutter off like a fart-air balloon.
Roger Armbrust
March 20, 2009
