The Deal

I called on Mephistopheles,
The queen of Hell, the underworld,
To demand immortality---
I made a deal, a challenge hurled.
I called on Mephistopheles
To ask eternal life from her,
And she, the fallen archangel,
Granted my wish with silky purr.

I called on Mephistopheles,
And promised I would e’er obey
Her sinful overtures to me,
Forevermore and ev’ry day.
I called on Mephistopheles,
We pledged our troth, belief intact,
But I have lived to regret that---
I rue this unwise, dev’lish pact. 

Now I call on Mephistopheles,
A frail, old man, bereft of joy,
No longer young and in full bloom,
No longer such a carefree boy.
I call on Mephistopheles,
Who has betrayed me without doubt,
To tell her how our deal has soured,
And let her know that I want out.

I call on Mephistopheles,
To blame her that I have grown old.
Although I followed her demands,
My blood has thinned, my bones grown cold.
I call to Mephistopheles,
“You have forsaken me!” I moan.
“I did your bidding my whole life,
And now I’m dying all alone.”

When I call on Mephistopheles,
As quick as sin, she comes along,
Cloaked in her vile mendacity, 
Smiling, purring, denying wrong.
I call on Mephistopheles
With my last breath, not feeling well.
“I’ve kept my end,” she whispers soft.
“You’ll live forever, but in Hell.”

_{© J. Bradley Burt 2023}