Earl Beardie at Glamis (A Legend)

He sits in a narrow chamber forever,

throwing dice with the Devil,

wearily feigning outrage

at Auld Hornie's underhand tactics.

The dice rattle like bad bones;

corpse knuckles in a cup

constructed from human flesh.

The room reeks of unwashed

evil pent up for five hundred 

years and then some.

 

Earl Alexander expectorates,

gobs hatred on the sawdust bare floor,

hating himself, but Satan more.

This was the deal he made:

being prey to endless

underhand card tricks,

loaded dice chicanery.

 

'You know you can stop this

any time.' The Devil smiles.

Beardie damns him fulsomely,

only the way a fifteenth century

noble madman would know.

To give him his due,

the Devil only winks,

begins another game.

 

Beardie pulls on his long

white beard, as if it was a 

bell pull to summon angels.

His armour chafes alarmingly

after these long centuries.

'I'm only doing what each man does;

rolling for another chance,

day in, day out.

Never doubt I'll win,

fiend of hell.'

 

'O well.'

Satan laughs. There are other things

he might be doing,

but it seems restful after

overthrowing empires,

tempting Christ,

to incrementally nick

this souls, quite slowly

through the centuries.

'Quite nice,' Satan mumbles.

Beardie throws the

dice at him.