II. The Devil
The Devil is licking his claws, debonair
to the glint in his cufflinks, a pair
of horns peeping out of his hair.
‘I can’t help it if I get the girls.
One flick of my tongue and they flock for miles,
proffering underwear. Or souls.
I just mop up the excess,’ he insists
with a smirk. He looks on in disgust
at the rat race’s heap of directionless angst.
‘The stuff I deal in has a hell of a kick.’
His cheekbones and nose could facet a rock.
He leans in close and his cufflinks click.