|by Betsy Hanes Perry
[Angel slouches into his office, slumps into a chair,
digs a hand into one dramatic coat pocket, pulls out a
Astroglide, looks at it with horror and revulsion, and
throws it across the room.]
[Then he starts singing. Fortunately, the Gay Green
Guy has recently whisked him off to an excellent
surgeon, who performed a successful vocal chord
transplant. The donor was an undead six-year-old, but,
hey, it's still an
ANGEL: When life becomes bleak,
Can obscure the darkness
And the icky
In my soul.
If it's been a bad week,
Tidies up the gloom and
all the trauma --
Makes me whole!
When the thinking gets rough,
I just crease up my brow
Ah, there's nothing quite like
I can cuddle safely
Till the End...
I need you, Denial!
My faithful (and only) friend...
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