I was asked to attend an extravagant
ball featuring Milton's Pandemonium.
Beelzebub stared at my neckline the entire
evening. He wouldn't even fetch me punch.
The bottoms of my shoes were licked
by lapdog angels. Satan said it was
precautionary protocol. "I keep a clean
place here and you've got Earth on your soles."
There were rants about choices.
Choices about choosing. Choosing
beef brisket or chicken cutlet
satiated me more than fate or freewill.
Satan would hear none of it.
"Believe it or not," said Sin. "Eve
wasn't all that pretty." Someone is
jealous and I know it's the Oedipal dog
skirt to my left. Where's my punch?
Where's that pervert, Beelzebub?
Where is my Death?