St. Michael The Archangel And The Satan Argue Over The Body of Ashli Babbitt
“May it please the court, and may I first present
That Mrs. Babbitt came to The Bay with God’s assent.
In Trump’s America, it was allowed
That Mr. Babbitt be seen as well-endowed
(Monitarily, of course), and though she was worthless
Was proud to be named Queen of The Pool Service.
And when the feds called the loan, she was too retarded
To make any sense of it, she started
With the Pizzagate and the cabal,
And the homeless, immigrants——the wall
That she climbed——in her pocket a knife,
And for the brief moment ‘fore the end of her life
She got to feel in charge of her fate;
A creature so useless been forced to wait
for any sense of agency,
Judge, and Michael, y’all know me,
How I was appointed by Him to know
The faults and fallings of the masses below.
We all can see, act of creation aside,
That it’s best for all beings this varmit had died.
She cowered and raged of her own ineptitude——
She never helped one, and when left destitute
She shrilled her impotent voice——
Her Cro-Magnon mind came caught in the noise——
No soul, no loss,,,all disgrace——
Your Honor, opposing counsel, I rest my case.”
The judge turned to Michael, who, swallowed in thought,
Stared blankly down upon the evidence he had brought,
And inside his mind was the consideration
Of every person, of every nation,
Of different values, of different words,
Of countless deaths and several births——
He saw two factions——on either side of the street
Stood them, calling on the others to weep
For their sins: “They’ve ruined our country!
Should they be culled all would be lovely!”
Sees the blind.
And so our Michael knew the mind
Of Sulla, his believers, all their kind:
Stalin and Robespierre, Sâr and Gonzalo,
Hitler and Urban II, Polk and Tojo,
Even Lenin required his Dzerzhinsky——
And the angel considered intently
That Christman would suffer middle-aged stroke,
That O B would crash out and burn all that he wrote,
That Lana would marry a crocodile hunter,
That a boy in Some Place would be torn asunder
With no recourse as to who or how or why.
Poor Michael then started to cry
As he foresaw Buncombe’s coming retribution,
And he was reminded while in state of confusion
Of his own powerlessness in the face of The Plan
Which wouldn’t let him save a drowning woman or starving man,
And he saw the place he once knew as Eden
Washed away, broke down, defeated.
Former glory must be redoubted,
So in court he was astounded
To vision had fallen among the formerly well-known tree.
Poor Ashli’s council could only reply:
“May God rebuke thee!”