Fata Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

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.