Wiry croons cut the night air, and I picture him
swaying to the rhythm of his triumph.
No one ever believed the damned could get
exactly what they want, so un-scorched is he.
The icicled wraiths press out each note,
wearied by their resurrection for the pleasure of another,
and though I feel for them, I find myself humming,
and I hum louder to express delight in your
pious exasperation.
We need to treat the dead right, but you only say that
knowing you’ll join them,
and I hate the way you always look out for number one.