NOTHING PURE

Nothing Pure

The devil wears black leather

And drives a motorcycle made of different machines:

Harley, Indian, Honda, American Eagle,

Big Dog, Suzuki, you name it....

A custom made hybrid bike....

'Cause he don't like nothing pure.

The devil don't like nobody

And nobody don't like him

And he likes it that way:

It gives him a morbid pleasure and a twisted kind of relief

'Cause he never was one

For small talk.

Big issues were always his game

You know the ones:

Life, death, sin, taxes,

Heaven, Hell, politics,

Sex, drugs, rock and roll

And inventing new religions.

Who has time for chit chat

And text messaging

When there are people to kill,

And places to blow up,

Lives to ruin,

And sitcoms to script?

Life is not a bowl of cherries

To his way of thinking

It's more like a bowl of watermelons

Full of ghastly seeds from the Garden of Eden

Growing, living things

That not even he and Monsanto can stomp out.

But he tries, he tries.....

It's a never ending battle,

This mission of his

Pluck up this, tear down that,

Hybridize those, clone all these,

And of course, blame it all on alien abductions.

It does get tiresome sometimes,

This quest to destroy all purity

Finding it in himself, he set out to purge it,

Re-mold himself, re-create himself,

Re-invent himself, destroy himself,

Though he does occasionally, even now, miss the days when he was pretty.

Life was simpler then, up there

All he had to do was sing, smile,

Learn how to play new instruments,

And keep an eye out for enemies,

Who, of course, hadn't yet made an appearance

And eventually, figure out how to make a snake look good to a woman.

Women are silly creatures:

Tell them they can't have something,

And they'll move Heaven and Earth

To get it

Tell them they can have it,

And they lose interest in it almost immediately.

Men, on the other hand,

Want hardly anything

And won't walk across a Garden to get it

Even if it's on sale or free

All they want is to lie in the shade and try not to think

And most of them do a good job at that.

Humans are useless

He doesn't understand why they were created

In the first place

And out of dirt, for pete's sakes!

What kind of biologist comes up with that concept,

For crying out loud? Dirt??

He  himself was made of finer stuff than that!

Essence of diamond! The purest gold!

24 carat holy stuff,

And the breath of God

His wings, like stained glass windows

And his face almost too beautiful to gaze upon.

But he mustn't dwell on that now

He had things to do, places to go,

People to see and a short time to work

There was still some purity in the world

That had to be tainted, dropped in the mire,

And thrown in the pit.

Hybrids were an affront to the Big Guy

Not really His, not really, His creations

More like a joint effort

Between Frankenstein and Silly Putty

All this nonsense about purity and such,

6000 plus years and he was still in the lab.

But one day, one day.....

The whole world was gonna look

Like Ground Zero on September the 12th

What a glorious day that had been!

The day when the world changed, the media said then

Yeah, well, baby, you ain't seen nothin' yet!

Me and the boys,

We gonna ride through your burned out cities

And your bombed out landscapes,

And your amber waves of grain

Like Hell's Angels going on a picnic

And we're gonna celebrate the death of all things holy.

Too bad you won't be there to see it

Too bad there won't be anybody's faces to rub it in

Or strut around and sneer at,

Or crucify and tar and feather,

'Cause all things pure and holy will be gone.

Oh, hell, yeah! Gone, baby, gone!

And the only things left on Earth

Will be stuff we made,

Stuff we took joy in,

Stuff we created out of death and destruction,

And Nephilim spare parts.

The devil runs his hands across his whiskered face,

Spits on the ground and looks up at the sun

He sees an eagle circling high just riding the breeze

A spy, he supposes, they're everywhere

Reporting his activities and spoiling his fun

Well, it's Eagle Season, he grins.

He loads up his bow and arrow,

The shoulder launched, heat seeking,

Weapon of mass destruction kind,

And fires at the magnificent bird,,,,,,,

Waiting for it to scream and fall, 

He wonders what he'll use for target practice later on.

But the bird doesn't fall

It flies off to a high topped mountain peak

And sits there in a tall pine tree

Just staring at him with a gleam in it's eye

Challenged, he roars angrily and starts the bike up the mountain side

But the motor sputters and fizzles out with a whimper.

Multiplied centuries and he still hasn't figured out

The formula for fossil fuel..............

©by Voo

November 20, 10

6:16 p.m.