Bargain Basement - Poem By Bill Lythgoe
I stand and wait outside the gates of hell.
A sign suggests they might not let me in:
NO ACCESS FOR UNLICENSED PERSONNEL.
A female demon’s finger strokes my chin.
She licks her lips, “How may I help you, please? ”
“Er, well, I’ve come down here to sell my soul.”
She says, “I need to list our USPs:
our clients’ satisfaction is our goal.
We follow health and safety guidelines here,
we’re registered abroad – no tax to pay.
Our special offer: sign up for a year
and you’ll be Poet Laureate for a day.”
“Sounds good, ” I say, “but I’ve heard better from
your rivals at beelzebub.com.”