To Whom it May Concern (I know not which,

since three of you presently rule Heaven):

It is I, your servant, whom you banished

from Paradise, your misbegotten son,

Asmodeus, Eblis, et cetera;

I will be brief, as you have not answered

even one of my many short dicta

(the last letter having been delivered

when Hannibal thundered across the Alps).

My icy quarters in the fourth ring

grow colder nightly, owing to your help,

which makes it more than difficult to bring

my varied concerns to your attention—

so for once, I implore you to listen. 

Charon is derelict in his duties–

he sleeps on the banks of the Acheron

when he imagines no one is looking.

Cerberus is old and often prone

to taking long naps (and one of his heads

is not functioning, or so I’ve heard).

At Hell’s entrance, we’ve run out of hornets,

and the Titans flatly refuse to guard

the ninth circle until they are paid.

Also, the river of blood has congealed

and the great wall of Dis is in a state

of disrepair. I must also appeal

to your mercy, for I have bursitis

from standing so long in Lake Cocytus.

To wit, I am feeling a bit restless

and must remind you of my position.

I have been working this thankless business

forever: I deflowered the gardens

of Eden and Gethsemane, then paved

the Way of Sorrow; I drove Nero mad

until he joyfully set Rome ablaze;

I gifted the legions their zeal for blood,

then sealed the zealots’ fate at Masada;

with but a breath, I unleashed the Plague;

and I honed every skill of Torquemada,

the most inventive friar in Spain.

While my curriculum vitae is vast,

I’ve saved this point of contention for last:

It was I, not you, who caused the Great Flood.

My crowning achievement was cleverly

struck from those ledgers written in blood,

kept in your Celestial Registry.

I demand, forthwith, you address this error —

before the next millennium begins.

Otherwise, I may contrive some terror

hitherto spared from the annals of men.

Unfairly, the living in their naiveté

credit your hand for their misery

each time I mount a calamitous display —

yet I get saddled with Sloth, Wrath, Envy,

Pride, Avarice — and other trifles

your acolytes inscribed in the Bible.

But I digress. The soul that you sent down—

along with that surly shade, Virgil—

was civil enough, and so, I found

a serviceable courier for this epistle

and granted him safe passage to that end.

While we prefer to torture the guilty,

not those hell-bent on their own ruin,

we will receive him back accordingly,

for there’s always a home for the willing

in the hallowed, if not broken, circles

which you mysteriously built for me—

and since we’re shorthanded, his clerical skills

could save us from eons of paperwork.

Yours in all Perdition — Lucifer.