Satan had been frog watching,
with a static electricity torch
to keep him from plunging
into the empty darkness of a ravine.
He strolled into a megalithic church hall.
Staggered by a blast of infatuation,
he fought gamely to regain his equilibrium
amidst a sea of midriff tops,
navel sapphires, and tantalizingly short skirts.
The place inspired more perversity
than a stroll through the university.
After studying the lyrics of the hymns,
they remained as meaningless to him
as the trussed and gagged Zombies
defacing three of Derek Simms limbs.
The remnants of Lucifer’s concentration vanished,
as he glimpsed Angie Becket’s stained glass window lingerie.
Was she a trusting little darling
proclaiming to the good Lord her body is her temple
or making it known to yours truly,
that cheeky cloven hooved,
pitch fork twirling, life of the party,
that she’s a bad girl?
Pastor Jenkins discussed God’s ban
on sex outside of marriage.
Fuck the idea of a license to fuck,
Satan muttered before taking another peek
at the stained glass windows
decorating his favoured places of worship.
By SMS, he proposed a trip to a skating rink.
Angela said yes please, with a wicked wink.
The lace peeking from her paint tight leotard
made dancing on the glassy ice doubly hard.
All they wore was the shine of the blue moon,
as Angie’s epicentre overshadowed a monsoon.
Olympic gold could not upstage the revelation
it was the pastor’s sister who gave into temptation.
Satan by Oscar
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