The Devil's no longer a myth
But has taken the surname of Smith
And become a good sort
A sahib, a sport,
A chap we're all intimate with.
A psychic researcher's elation
Was shattered by her situation;
She'd been heard to boast
That she'd slept with a ghost
But now she's got phantom gestation.
Said an elderly Bishop called Greville
At a secret episcopal revel;
"We're distressingly bored
With the words of the Lord,
So let us now discourse on the Devil."
At spirit seances in Queen's,
The spirits make terrible scenes:
Thus recently Bach
Shouted angrily: "Ach!
I'm sick of your damn tambourines!"
A man from The Washington Post
Once had it off with a ghost;
At the height of orgasm
The pale ectoplasm
Shrieked: "I'm coming! I'm coming... almost!"
As played by the phantom of Shrule
Midnight football is eerie and cruel;
If one kicks a ghost
Past the other's goal-post
He wins credit for scoring a ghoul.
God's plan made a hopeful beginning
But man spoilt his chances by sinning;
We trust that the story
Will end in great glory
But at present, the other side's winning.
The Devil, who plays a deep part
Has tricked his way into your heart
By simple insistence
On his non-existence
Which really is devilish smart.