A Wolf In Priest's Clothing
Footsteps creep along the floor,
a wolf in priest's clothing tap-tapping at my door -
he’ll huff and he’ll puff and he’ll blow this boy down,
the carpet is wearing his evening gown.
The Malebolge is waiting,
licked lips, anticipating,
he’ll deny but oh, he’ll go
for all the poison he made flow,
a vampire’s lust is quenched with fright,
even Lady Macbeth would be satisfied tonight.
No recollection of what he ‘loves,’
just blind faith that he’s talking doves,
but for all he’ll try, the wings he wears
are unwashable by prayers
because he flew too high, got burned by sunlight,
he hailed the virgin but it won’t be alright
and Rover's collar will never wash Caliban white.
I hope He's enjoying that daiquiri
wherever He is tonight.
© Copyright 2016 November. All rights reserved.
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