Waldo Thelonius, last name, Fletcher
Was a Reaper, a wayward soul catcher.
He lived in the town of Necropolis
Land of the dead, decayed metropolis.
When it came to Reaping, he didn’t care
If you were young or old, or without hair.
It didn’t matter, your color or creed,
It didn’t matter, your good or bad deeds.
Waldo would Reap, in weather fair or foul,
He always showed up, in bright robes and cowl.
He was quite different, the others thought,
Though none of his charges wept tears or fought.
He was quite kind, patient, and always fair.
With a loved one’s soul, he took quite good care.
He had a neat trick, a gift, do you see?
A bag full of quirks, fun for you and me.
Waldo was ecstatic, doing his job,
Until the day he met Miscreant Bob.
Bob was a cheater, a liar, a sneak,
He’d once hid his mother’s socks for a week
Waldo came to see him in the dark night.
“You’ll not take my soul, without a great fight!”
Bob cried this to Waldo, quite unimpressed,
Waldo knew this was to be a harsh test.
Bob showed him a parchment, written in blood.
Waldo read it, and feared his name was mud.
The paper was signed, notarized and true,
The author was Satan – that really blew.
Miscreant Bob’s soul was inviolate,
With a Lord of Hell, it had a date set.
Waldo soon came up with a cunning plan.
He would trick Satan, and beat mortal man.
With a flourish, he produced his trick bag.
Inside was everything, plus a Swiss flag.
He pulled out a kitten, adorable,
Bob just sniffed, he was incorrigible.
Waldo tried a balloon, monkey and axe,
He even tried showing Clinton on sax.
He tried a sleazy porn he’d once had made,
Starring a donkey, small person, and maid.
Nothing he showed Bob seemed to sway the man,
Waldo disliked him, he was not a fan.
He seized the paper, and in a dark snit,
He shredded the contract, done with that shit
With a great heave, the earth trembled and shook,
In fire, Satan appeared, reading a book.
He looked up from his page, slightly annoyed,
Said, “Who was it summoned me from the void?”
Waldo pointed at Bob, white as a ghost,
Terrified of the Prince of the Damned Host.
“I’ll pull off your skin, and eat your old bones!”
Satan said, his voice in calm, measured tones.
Waldo capered and reached in his trick bag,
He handed Satan a pitchfork and rag.
“What’s the rag for?” Satan asked with a gleam.
“To stuff in his mouth when he starts to scream.”
Bob leapt out of bed and ran down the stairs,
Tripped halfway, broke his neck, thought “It’s not fair”.
“Well, that’s done, there’s nothing left here for me.”
Waldo heard Satan, and hopped up in glee.
Waldo grabbed the soul, put it in a jar.
‘Don’t worry, little dude, you won’t go far.’
He sat on the jar and let a great fart.
Bob was quite lucky it wasn’t a shart.
He shook and shook and shook the jar some more.
He looked inside and called it a great whore.
He even dumped in an angry old bee.
When he was finished, he let Bob’s soul free.
Miscreant Bob’s soul went floating on by,
Waldo leapt and trapped it like a black fly.
To the toilet he took it, it struggled,
He flushed it down the bowl, and then giggled.
When it was over, Satan he did say:
“Holy shit, that was harsh. No fucking way.”
He left the room in a roaring red fire,
Leaving behind an echoing Hell choir.
Waldo felt happy and looked at his watch,
Bob’s soul was down, a job he did not botch.
Before he left, he made a great bean soup.
Let’s be quite honest, his brain slipped a loop.
Waldo is kind, patient and funny, true.
But if you fuck with him, he might flush you.