Report to Beelzebub:
You told me to report to you with regularity,
My liege—and so I grovel at your feet
And tell you—we’re experiencing superb prosperity.
Quite soon, we’ll harvest souls as ripe as wheat.
We’ve fertilized the field of souls with cheap vulgarity
(If you’ll allow—I’ll keep the metaphor)
And we have found that faithlessness will feed barbarity.
A bumper crop is what we have in store!
We’ve used more subtle methods, too—like insincerity,
Which wounded souls soak up. They grow like weeds.
Your Lowness—we have also found a similarity:
Hypocrisy will nurture bitter seeds.
So Lucifer—please pardon my familiarity—
The other imps and I have a request.
We’d like to have a bash, enjoy some high hilarity
When all the souls are gathered, gleaned, processed.
The Redeemer interrupts:
Hold on, you little demon—let me speak with clarity.
That harvest isn’t yours—each soul’s now free.
I’ve purchased them with blood, and look! With faith and charity
My workers have been gathering them to me.
They now enjoy abundant life, my sweet prosperity,
Complete with hope and love, fulfillment, too.
My blessings rain upon them now, for all posterity,
So let them be. Just scamper off now. Shoo!
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