My hooves are killing me. My back is on fire. No pun intended. Carrying around human souls is heavy lifting. Especially poets, whose souls weigh a good 50 pounds. Some barter with me. Fame and fortune in exchange for their soul.
Prose writers just shrug and say take what you need. After my last novel I'm going to hell anyway. Dancers plead, artists threaten me, photogs want a selfie. Politicians are all about the deal. Lawyers ask what took you so long?
Ah, there's a poet over by that podium getting ready to expound. Hey, Billie! Billie Collins! Over here. Yeah, it's your time. Oh alright, I'll let you do one more reading. I'll grab a cup of java. Just don't go running off. My hooves hurt as it is and I just may vaporize you out of spite.
A deal is a deal.
Incidentally, Castro's soul is stinking up the place.
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