"It's for you. I think it's The Devil."
I always wondered when
And how he would come knocking—
Maybe in a two-button Armani suit
Or clad in a red unitard
With a baffle for his tail—
And ask me why I blame him
For the ills in our hearts and world.
Will he flip open a dusty,
Bartleby-scriven ledger
And call me to account
For my good deeds,
Or did he come to claim me
For the accumulation
Of a succession of transgressions?
Does he realize I have a problem
With authority figures?
When The Devil comes knocking
Will he show up half-drunk
And reeking of sulphur
Or will he come in stealth
Looking polished and rakish
Like George Clooney or George Raft?
Will he proffer a Faustian deal?
Or is he coming because I earned
My passage into the underworld
The hard way, sin by sin
And he's nearly an innocent bystander
Just collecting the bill?
---o0o---
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