An angel, harp in hand, sometimes not,
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On my left shoulder, speaking about manners, good things, and the whole lot,
Her words were words of imaginary things she figured I had,
In a collection of responses I have a gift for her on my behalf,
But her attention is drawn across my eyes, to the large demon resting to the right.
The angel pointed a finger at him, shouting:
‘Thy demon give him plight,
give him blight, and insidious thoughts he
ends up listening to more often than not. If God
offered a conscience arrows, I’d have you shot.’
To give the angel credit,
Her syllables smelled of sugarcane.
The demon picked a bone from his teeth, peering at the angel doubting:
‘You. Lie. I simply imply. He believes
his deeds are the right things to do. So tell
you know who, “Go find a goddess and screw”.’
His slur like waning anesthetic,
Leaving you wanting more in shame.
She huffs, stroking the harp to drown him in soothing sound.
“My ears are bleeding, please stop it now,” I said, flicking her brow.
The demon nonchalantly rose to whisper in my ear:
‘You ass, do not forget the gift on your behalf!’
He smirked, bringing his middle finger to attention.
I remembered my response,
And summoned a little demon out of thin air;
My gift to her was a rabid little demon,
With a full stomach, yet room to spare.
The larger demon climbed across my hair,
Closed curtains sliding from nowhere and said with a sneer:
‘I think these two need some privacy here.’
Things that are done can be undone.