Fata

At a quarter to twelve he had shat his good self, and, with bible in hand, withered face in the sand, feels the devil's foul breath the foreboding of death. 'Let me climb one more peak in this world of the meek, do not take me this day.' And he's gone on his way to the land of believers who, besotten like beavers, take the judgment and die never seeing the fly in the mulberry soup, or the ghost in the group. Leaves behind Satan's words in the language of nerds. Then he drinks sour wine from his Godfather Rhine. Trusted soul, you shall sink into heavenly drink, no more devil to dread, no more God. He is dead.