If you’ve no new trick to stay the hand of man,
You, poor Devil, have run your course, stepped to your bounds—
Let sea and sand blast what they can.
I say, engorge with dread fury or channel a serpent’s ken;
You may call from fell pits your most hideous hounds,
If you’ve no new trick to stay the hand of man,
But for now, rest awhile, and know fair Earth has a plan.
(Later, you may shock each stratum underground!)
Let sea and sand blast what they can.
Hail minions your Father with his Lies may command,
—Yet know common rancor will misery compound—
If you’ve no new trick to stay the hand of man.
But don’t rush, young Clovenhoof, and hasten the settled end,
Nor flaunt the peril you entail, the flames of your crown:
Let sea and sand blast what they can.
For there’s no tool in your arsenal that I would feign ban,
Devolve, and lie dormant, and wait your turn ‘round.
If you’ve no new trick to stay the hand of man,
Let sea and sand blast what they can.
