Angels, I’m taking care of the vessel.
Just trust that I’ll return it in good shape.
I’d say your greatest bane must be to wrestle
mortals always attempting to escape
the drudgery of maintenance and self-care
necessitated through inspiriting clay.
We clamor for the high life of Bel Air
yet disregard the stench of pure decay
that billows up through cracks in the facade
when flesh begins to rot as we get rich.
Of course, we always out the man who’s odd!
That’s me. I’m steering clear. I’ve found my niche.
Dear angels, I will give it back when asked -
this vessel and its care with which I’m tasked.