She sleeps with me, almost a Madonna.  Look at her

Angelic, auburn hair.  If I was the father of Jesus,

I'd love her, pull her beneath me, and seed her with

Someone who'd walk upon water, turn water to wine,

But I'm sort of Satanic.  I stare at my phone, hunting

For innocents dreaming of lovers, like our savior's 

Dad, dreaming of unending epic salvation.  That's 

Something I'm certain that I can't supply.  I rise 

And get dressed as Madonna keeps sleeping,

Drift toward the address the phone shows,

And chortle.  I'm Satan.  No one's worse than me.