The Unholy Salesman Poem by Saint Eule

What undue gratitude has the salesman,
Flaunting his polite comments like the helmsman of a great vessel.
While all the time he is checking my pockets.

The orchestrated speech to collect my earnings,
Like the perditious noise of Goddards rockets.

Like missles they fire from his unholy lips.
Trying to loosen my purse strings from my hips.

Shall we deflect them and slam the door in his face,
Hang up the phone to put him in his place.

All this is vain because we sit by hour,
In front of the TV set where we pay for the power.