Faustus, of course, got it wrong,
As necromancers and licensed profiteers
Invariably do;
Relying, as always, on a dead and musty tradition
To validate nefarious activities;
The back stabbing daring do,
The gilded handshakes with politicians,
The abuse of the poor,
The lack of a moral compass.
Faustus followed this tradition to perfection,
Preferring a night on the tiles
To academic success;
And a dead queen really got his pecker up.
But when all is said and done, he was merely
a lousy businessman, sold on an easy profit
and a chance to hoodwink authority.
After twenty four years of not doing a proper job;
Wasting his petty investments; filching illicit sex;
Mocking God; preening like a cut price cowboy;
He got booted down into Hell
To be steamed in a permanent sauna;
A Health-Spa so ultra exclusive
it could not be hired out by the super rich.
Was this final scene worth all the farce and the fury?
The magic circles? The tattooed arms and wrists?
The well scratched backs? The snuggling up to the devil?
Only our hero could answer these pointed questions
Provided the script was made ready,
But his speechwriter went on a binge one starry night,
Got stabbed in the eye, and could no longer come up
with the goods.
Faustus was left without help, lost in the melee; uptight;
Dumb as a mannequin, ditched and out of sorts;
Cursing the day that he devoted his life
To beach party hijinks and amateur sports.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
December 23rd. - 25th. - 26th. - 30th. 2013.
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