Satan is a boxing fan and sometimes a Roman noblewoman
scraping her comb across a victorious gladiator's chest
to harvest the killer's sexy sweat,
the once holy funeral rites having devolved into orgasmic
Eve's slithering snake loves a good bout of fisticuffs.
And as the seductress Lilith, she sometimes feigns the gentle
but delights in the locked horns of horny stags.
When a loser falls that trickster Coyote always wins.
And there is always a loser so shrewd Shiva bets against both
and there's never a winner for to be a winner is never to fight.
But fighting is the crowd's number one team and spectator sport.
Beelzebub knows how to fix a fight.
The Mighty Misleader has a myriad of monikers,
Asp, Lilith, Coyote, Shiva, Beelzebub, Satan, Devil, Demon,
maybe even Mars or Ares but what's in a name,
a skunk cabbage by any other name smells as rotten.
The Black Soul Tempter has a slush fund of foul favors,
tokens of antilove,
which the Old Goat tosses into each arena ——
church, temple, synagogue, mosque, holy shrine.
It gets all those damned worshipers jealous
and into barroom brawls with their blood boiling then spilling
and literal heads rolling in the aisles,
while Moloch counts his money,
cashing in on all bad bets and collecting markers from bankrupt
and leaving the poor neglected janitor to mop up the mess.
If you have any comments on this poem, Richard Fein would be
pleased to hear from you.