The Angel Speaks to the New York Times

What, the Garden of Eden?
That’s what you think it’s like up there?

Back home, I’m a souljah,
posted along the perimeter of heaven.
You’d think afta a millennial
of battlin’ dark forces, we’d get a parade,
be allowed to get a lil’ action
from da groupies.

We can’t leave you mortals alone
for a second, without the rogue ones
tryna’ kill each otha’. This one’s mad
at that one for somethin’ that happened
before they were born.

This one’s darka’ than that one,
so that one’s gotta conquer this one.
Now, I gotta wipe da milk
off their mouths.

But I ain’t complainin’. It’s betta than
standing around, laughin’ at God’s jokes,
pamperin’ and praisin’ Him all da time.

This must be where you end up
when He catches you dreamin’
of busty Victoria Secret Angels.
Now I’m posin’ as a mortal
undercover, waitin’ for Lucifer
and his henchmen to pop up.

Rookies? They get distracted,
and there’s a lotta’ that.
My mortal body fights tha circus
that masquerades as news.
It’s enough to make a rookie blow his cover,
convinced he seen tha devil already.

There’s a pro-lifa’ supportin’ tha death penalty.
Oh Snap! There’s Mr. Fam’ly Values makin’ it rain
at strip clubs. Tha “unbiased” media’s a button
on the corporate lapel.

Oh, I’ma be here a minute.
Gotta reach those knuckleheads.
Gotta’ give it to Mr. Big Horns.
He puts on a helluva’ show.

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