“The trouble with you is you don’t love me.” —Kevin Quain.
I’ve discovered recently
that the Devil is really just
Death in disguise;
Death and I go out for
coffee every afternoon, and he
tells me how much
he hates his job,
never gets a vacation,
and the pay just doesn’t make
up for it—and he only gets
to do a little devil work
on the side, people
do enough of it
on their own
he tells me my days
are numbered if I stay with you,
losing a pint or two of blood
every week from sewing your clothes
and giving in to your fetishes
So I pack my bags, me and
Death hit the highway for Vegas—
he’s always had a dream of
retiring as an Elvis impersonator,
and I’d be quite content
playing poker all day and
looking for my Nevada cowboy—
who only ties up horses
and knows how to treat a lady