A message from Satan

It’s tough, in the office, to be in a good mood,

When there’s so much that weighs on my head.

(This doesn't work like a metaphor would,

My horns are literally made of lead).

Sole blame on a headache's not totally founded,

Something else bothers me a whole lot.

The pain in my head is doubly compounded;

My office is too fucking hot.

Mornings are wails of eternally damned,

Afternoons are the gnashing of teeth.

But starting to feel like I’ve somehow been scammed,

Is what’s really scheduled beneath.

In the beginning, the job sounded great,

I was naive enough to believe it.

Benefits: Medical, 401K,

I didn't know, though, that I couldn't leave it.

The contract I signed was chock-full of jargon,

Nothing that seemed very odd.

But I soon discovered I’d just made a bargain,

With someone more powerful: God.

God said "do this," and God said, "do that,"

I just wasn't finding my niche.

Under God's judgy finger, a desk there I sat,

'Til I realized, oh God, I'm God's bitch!

"Your job in Hell is to make me look good,"

Said God to this disgruntled Satan.

"So do all the things that an evil thing would,

And make yourself worthy of hatin’.”

"For as long as there's scary, bad stuff people fear,

They'll worship my beard of divinity.

Which means, of course, you'll have to work here,

For pretty much now to infinity."

What a pain, being evil twenty-four seven,

To keep balance with good as it should be.

But I’m told that without all this Hell vs. Heaven,

That really, what good would "good" be?

When I think of eternity that I must serve,

I sometimes will quietly sob,

For I know I’ll never work up the nerve,

To quit the world's most thankless job.