#nonsensical ramblings on aziraphale? yes please

[tonydaddingham]

thought for the morning: have we considered that maybe the reason why aziraphale seems to regress back to thinking that heaven is redeemable and intrinsically good is because the voice of god has literally implied that heaven is currently broken by saying that he needs someone like aziraphale to run it, indicating that heaven by god's design was always meant to be good and they need aziraphale to change it back to how it was intended, because it stands for truth and light and good but right now it's not doing what it was set out to do

and that aziraphale might have come round to thinking through the centuries that heaven never ever was or will be the good place but actually now he's thinking maybe he was wrong maybe it was always meant to be the good place but it's been corrupted by others enacting their own free will and that free will being to misinterpret god's word, like the realisation he touched on in job "i dont think that is what god wants" and now not only could he make a difference because he wants to, but because metatron (and by extension in his eyes god herself) needs him to

[ineffablegame]

hey for the prompt thing: a/c 43 taking care when the other one's sick?

I hope this doesn’t feel like I phoned it in!  :o

Also available on my Ao3.

In Crawly’s defense, he hadn’t meant to get mixed up in Legion’s nonsense.

He hadn’t even wanted to be in Gerasa.  He’d been shooting for Pella, intent on meeting Aziraphale for evening drinks at a tavern of some repute, but he’d bungled the miracle and sent himself too far east.  He’s been in Gerasa not five minutes before Legion streaks past, clad in the body of an emaciated human and nothing else.  Stupid with shock, Crawly is helpless against Legion’s pull; it sucks him in, as powerful as gravity, and he is trapped inside the pinwheeling pandemonium of the human’s mind before he can so much as blink.  

Legion is a well-known party animal in the bowels of Hell.  Sometimes, they make for a roaring good time.  Whenever the ruling class of Hell looks away long enough for the lesser demons to drum up a party, Legion is always the first on the dance floor, badly-boogying their little heart out.  

This would all have been tolerable – fun, even – if that were the end of it.  But Legion is the sort of obnoxious partier that inspires frat boys ‘round the world to get spectacularly shitfaced, ratchet up the decibels of their bellowing with each successive drink, and plague every woman in a fifty-yard radius with atrocious pick-up lines and beer-rank breath.

They are, in short, an unholy pain in the arse.  And Crawly’s just been forced to share some poor sod’s body with them.  

“Crawly!” they exclaim.  Their voice is a cataclysm of shrieks and squeals and wrenching moans, impossible for the human larynx to replicate.  Crawly winces as pain lances through the man’s throat.  “How you doin’, buddy?”

“Uh, fine,” he replies automatically, because banal pleasantries are the only blessed thing that make sense in the careening carousal of flashing light flickering image dank dark gibbering sobs please let me go let me go let me GO—  “Er.  Just great.”  

“We haven’t seen you since… shit, can’t remember the last time!”

Yes, Crawly thinks, I’d been rather making an effort with that.

“Where are we?” he asks, because the sooner he gets past the basics, the sooner he’ll be able to disentangle himself and escape.  “Who are we?”

“Hell’s teeth, I dunno!” Legion bellows.  

“So why are we—”

“I was bored!  Buddy, am I glad you came along!  We’re gonna have so much fun with this stupid human!”

Crawly, inwardly grimacing, resigns himself to be an unwilling guest in the revelry.  Legion is an idiot with the attention span of a goldfish; the moment they lose interest and cast the wasted husk of this human body aside, he’ll be free.  He only has to wait.  

Three days later, Legion hasn’t lost interest.  And then Jesus of Nazareth wanders into Gerasa.  

“Hello, there,” says Jesus.

Legion may be a fool, but they know the Son of God when they see him. They pull back the man’s lips in a feral snarl.  “Dude, fuck off.  There’s, like, a ton of us.”

Jesus of Nazareth smiles benignly, head cocked, eyebrows arched.  Crawly, crammed inside a body that feels like it’s withering away by the minute, shivers with a soul-deep terror.  

“There certainly are a lot of you,” says Jesus.  “It’s not right, one person being so many.”  

As he speaks, each word uttered with total composure, Crawly becomes aware of the squeals and snorts of pigs nearby.  He clambers up to the human’s eyes, elbowing fragments of Legion aside for a look.  Over the Son of Man’s shoulder, a boy and his father are guiding their herd of swine toward the scene.  

“I think,” Jesus says, quiet menace creeping into his tone, “that you should go back to being separate.  Now.”

The change is dizzying in its suddenness.  Before Crawly can make sense of what has happened, he is looking up at Mary’s baby boy from an entirely different angle, snorting and snuffling and stamping his trotters in the dirt.  He’s been dropped into a bloody pig like a recalcitrant plant that’s outgrown its pot.  

The squeals around him reach a frantic pitch and Crawly turns, startled.  The other pigs are throwing back their heads with rending screams, eyes rolling, spittle flying from their mouths.  A fragment of Legion has been placed inside each one, and the separation is driving them mad with terror.  They barrel past the boy and his father, heedless of their staffs, and stampede down the rutted dirt road.  It is a narrow road, turning sharply to hug a cliff face overlooking a deep, cold lake.

Jesus blinks.

A thunderous rumbling sound judders over Legion’s screams and the road buckles, crumbles.  Crawly watches, relief warring with terror, as each pig topples after the other like chain link following chain link to vanish, shrieking and cursing, over the side of the cliff.  The sound of frantic splashing ensues, cut short with preternatural swiftness.  Silence descends.  

Jesus turns to Crawly, who shrinks into himself inasmuch as a two-hundred and fifty-pound hog can shrink.  But the Christ’s smile is no longer menacing; in fact, it’s practically pleasant, warming Crawly from the tip of his snout to the end of his curly tail.  His every demonic instinct warns him against that warmth – that his will is being leaned on, manipulated – but it’s difficult to focus when he feels suddenly so content.

“Hello, Crowley,” says Jesus.

“That’s not my name,” Crawly replies.  It’s all squealing and snorting, but the Word of Life understands him anyway.  

“My mistake,” Jesus says, in the unbothered, smiling way of someone quite certain they aren’t mistaken.  “Crawly, is it?”

“Maybe,” Crawly mumbles.

“Sorry about that.  The snout, I mean.  Legion had quite the hold on you.”

“Um… it’s fine…?”

“I’ll sort you out right now.”  Her Only Begotten Son rubs his palms together in a way that, some millennia later, will come to mind when Aziraphale embarks on his one-sided love affair with magic tricks.  “Send you off to your friend.”

“My wh—”

Crawly’s vision whites out before he can complete the question.  A moment later, blinking dazedly past the haloes branded on the backs of his eyelids, Crawly finds himself seated at a table, back in his own body.  Aziraphale, siting opposite of him with a jug raised to his lips, stares in wide-eyed amazement.  He lowers the jug.

“Crawly!” he says.  “Why, we were supposed to meet three days ago!  I was worried sick!”

“I’m—”  Crawly pauses, sniffling, and sneezes.  He pointedly ignores the offended expression on Aziraphale’s face as he shields the jug from a drizzle of snot.  Recovering with an accusatory look around the tavern, he continues, “Glad you were able to overcome your crippling worry and c—”  Another sneeze, and this time Aziraphale lifts the jug out of harm’s way.  Crawly soldiers on.  “Carry on without me.”

Aziraphale has the grace to look guilty.  “This is the seasonal menu.  It won’t last much longer.”

“Of course.  How silly of me.”  Crawly points at the jug.  “Give me that.”

“It’s mine,” Aziraphale sniffs.

“Angel.”  Crawly leans across the table, elbows propped on the gnarled wood.  “I’ve been stuck in a human’s body for the last three days with the most annoying demon this side of Creation.  After that, I was trapped inside a sodding pig.  Give.  Me.  That.  Drink.”

His speech would be more persuasive without a dribble of snot hanging off the end of his nose, but Crawly glares at the angel nonetheless, determined not to be cowed.  After a moment of staring, perplexed, Aziraphale passes him the jug.  

“You’re leaking,” the angel says petulantly.

“S’fine.”  Crawly takes a determined swig.  “It’ll pass in a minute, don’t you worry.”

-

It doesn’t pass.  In fact, over the next few days, the sneezing gets worse.  With it comes a ridiculous amount of snot, rivers of the stuff, and chills and fevers and stomach upsets that put him entirely off drinking altogether.  By the seventh day, he is bedridden, wheezing and certain he’s about to be discorporated with Someone’s inventive new take on the plague.  

“Oh, stop being so melodramatic,” Aziraphale says, miracling a square of linen to mop the sweat from his brow.  “You’ll be ship-shape in no time.”

“It was the pigs,” Crawly rambles, staring at Aziraphale with glassy eyes.  “I’ve… I’ve got a pig illness.  A pig flu.  A swine flu.”

Aziraphale, cold-hearted nurse that he is, merely scoffs.  “What rubbish.  ‘Swine flu.’”  He chuckles.  “I’m sure I’ve never heard such nonsense.”

“Bet it’ll be all the funnier when it kills me,” Crawly moans.  “Then you can laugh.”

“Hush.” Aziraphale lays a gentle hand on his brow.  There is no miracle at work – only the cool, steady pressure of his touch.  Somehow, that is enough.  Crawly closes his eyes with a sigh.  

[bewareofchris]

52: ineffable husbands

Pg-13 | Aziraphale/Crowley | Good Omens |  “I’m not jealous! its just…you’re mine!”

If asked, Aziraphale would say that it most definitely started with a snake bite.

If asked, Crowley would say that it certainly did not start with a snake bite, it ended with one.  No, the matter started with a woman with remarkable makeup and a sharp coat that had been routinely inviting herself into Aziraphale’s bookshop every Tuesday and Thursday for six weeks.  It started with her lingering stare that had taken notice of Aziraphale, and rather than being amused by his bowtie and his silly coat, and his jolly round face, she had been intrigued.  Crowley could sympathize with anyone that had ever found themselves unfortunately intrigued by the angel, but that didn’t mean he was willing to forgive them.  

The matter started with the length of time she stayed, growing longer and longer as the weeks went by, and her boldness that started with her asking an innocent enough question about the location of the facilities.  (They didn’t have any.  None at all, but Aziraphale usually said ‘no public toilets’ as if he had remembered to include any private ones.)  

And it continued, the woman had started conversations, and discussions, and she’d conned Aziraphale into talking (and the angel did love talking).  She had listened with unashamed attention about all of his nonsense rambling.  She’d asked questions to keep him going.  She’d started adorning herself like a present waiting to be unwrapped and when Aziraphale showed no signs of realizing, she had started unwrapping herself.

By week three, she had starting taking off her coat.

And then her skirts grew shorter.

And her shirts grew thinner.

And her lips grew redder.

And Aziraphale didn’t seem to notice (not one bit), and that left him wholly unprepared for the way her voice purred over the words, “we should get coffee sometime.”

“Oh,” the--no,no, Crowley’s angel--said.  His hands were worrying together, his mouth was shaping words his brain hadn’t decided on.  “That’s very kind of you to offer,” was a placeholder, and a terrible one.

“Just one cup,” she assured him.  Her hands were drawing attention to her breasts, or they were trying but she had no way of knowing that Aziraphale didn’t care about breasts.  (Well he did, but only when Crowley was in the mood to have them, and only when they were mutually in the mood to take note of them.  And then he very much cared, very persistently and at length.)  “We can talk about--”

Crowley (as a snake, not a man-shaped thing) slithered off the top of the bookshelf that he’d taken to sunbathing on.  He slid across Aziraphale’s shoulder and made the angel jump and then, like a reflex, lift his hand to cup across Crowley’s back.  His smile had hardly had time to reach his face, and the woman was wide-eyed and staring at him.  

That too could be forgiven.  Humans were always so surprised about the size of things.  They had no imagination for it, no matter how many times you told them, no matter how many comparisons you gave, they were always astounded when they were face to face with the thing at last.  And here was Crowley, bigger than any snake had any right to be, slithering across an angel’s shoulder to stare at her.  

“What a,” the woman said with a quiver, “a beautiful snake.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said very pleasantly, “he is--”

But whatever else was meant to be said couldn’t be finished.  The woman’s scream interrupted Aziraphale’s soft praise because Crowley had jumped forward to sink his fangs into her arm, just above her offensive hand playing at unbuttoning her blouse.  

“Crowley!” Aziraphale shouted at him as his hands grabbed the woman’s hands like he could stop what had already happened.  The woman was hysterical, and Crowley was perfectly pleased by how the whole thing turned out.  (He might not be much of a demon but he certainly did understand the concept of petty vengeance when he felt like it.)  

But the angel was upset, and Crowley was man-shaped again, standing there with a frown and a snap of his fingers to bring the woman and time around them to a brief halt.  Aziraphale was clutching her frozen arm with both hands, and blood was seeping out of the wounds.

“I’m not venomous,” Crowley said, “at least not usually.”

Aziraphale glared at him.  “What was the meaning of this?  And how do you expect me to explain it?  You bit the woman!”

“She was trying to have sex with you,” Crowley snapped back.

Aziraphale could not have been more surprised if heaven itself descended to give him an award for outstanding angel-ing.  He was left gasping for some understanding, casting worried glances at the frozen woman like she could attack him with any more lecherous intent.  “No,” he said at last.

“Her shirt is see through.”

“That’s the style.”

“Her skirt is becoming harder and harder to find every time she comes to visit you.”

“It’s getting warmer outside.”

“It’s snowing.”

Aziraphale looked toward the door with squinted eyes and then back at him.  “So it is.”  He loosened his hands and stepped back, “that’s not excuse to bite someone Crowley.  You need to find a way to control your jealousy.”

“Jealousy?” Crowley repeated.  “Jealousy?  I’m not jealous, you’re...”  But he was jealous.  He was completely jealous.  His claim on the angel had been questioned.  The intruder had not been immediately rebuffed.  No, Aziraphale had entertained her and...  “You’re mine!”

Aziraphale scoffed.  “Well, this is yours as well,” he waved his hand to indicate the woman and the snake bite.  “She’ll call the authorities and it’ll be very upsetting trying to explain that I’ve misplaced a man-sized people-biting snake.  It’ll be bad for business.”

There were multitudes of things that were wrong with that statement, but the one that stuck out the most was the bit where Aziraphale thought his bookshop was a business.  Crowley didn’t poke him about it, he just sighed, “fine,” he said. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Nicely,” Aziraphale said.  “And maybe I’ll forgive you.”

“Nicely,” Crowley assured him.  As nicely as a demon could.

[acedesigns]

Soup [Good Omens: Aziraphale X Reader]

Word Count: 1440

A/N: In college, the entire biology department came down with pneumonia - including yours truly. That, paired with my asthma and chronic illness was horrible. It took me months for my lungs to fully recover (if they ever did). I was also on my own while I was sick, which sucked. I couldn’t get to the grocery store because walking out of my apartment left me wheezing.

--

It has been four days since you had gone to the doctor with issues breathing. Four days since they took x-rays of your chest. And three days since you’ve been placed on anti-biotics for pneumonia. It was absolutely terrible. Breathing hurt. Coughing hurt way worse. Getting up from bed just to relieve yourself or to grab something from the kitchen was very difficult. It took your breath away just taking those few steps. It got to be too much to where you just set up camp midway between the refrigerator and the toilet. Luckily, your phone and laptop didn’t care where they were so they traveled with you.

It was on the fourth day that your door started to make an awfully loud noise. Your eyes cracked up from your slumber and you shifted in your blanket, hoping the door would stop talking. However, after realizing the nonsense your brain was making up, you bolted straight up. You winced from the sharp pain that erupted from the depths of your chest.

“Coming!” you tried to wheeze out, but it came out just louder than the squeak of a mouse. Slowly, you stood from your nest on the floor and shuffled over to the door. You wheezed ever so slightly and took a moment to catch your breath before opening the entrance to your abode.

“[Y/N]!” Aziraphale was standing at your door looking worried. “I was so worried something had happened to you. You haven’t been by my book shop lately and you haven’t answered your phone and--. You look terrible!”

“I was actually thinking I was going to be on the front page of a fashion magazine,” you said with no emotion in your voice. Emotions were exhausting and you were too tired for that nonsense.

“Oh, dear. That did come out a bit rude. I do apologize. Are you alright, though?”

“Pneumonia, you should probably stay back.” You turned suddenly and coughed into the crook of your elbow. Bits of mucus shot up your esophagus and out your mouth. You winced at the pain and at how disgusting you felt at that moment.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Aziraphale exclaimed and made his away into your home much to your astonished horror. “I could have been taking care of you!”

“I don’t want you to get sick,” you trailed off watching Aziraphale rummage through your kitchen. “What are you doing?”

“I’ve read that chicken noodle soup is the best food for when you are sick. So I will be making you some,” Aziraphale said quite simply in such a way that you couldn’t argue against him. “Would you like some tea while I’m at it?”

“Oh um…” You shuffled on your feet. “Sure?”

“Very good! You go and rest while I get everything ready and I’ll bring it to you.”

“A-alright.” You went to go sit in your nest of blankets, pillows, and the stuffed animal you went to hid from Aziraphale. Though, once you thought about it, you bet Aziraphale had a stuffed animal or two of his own.

“[Y/N]? Why are you in the middle of the floor?” You looked up to see Aziraphale looking down at you with a stern face. “You should be resting in bed! Or at least on a sofa!”

“It’s too difficult to walk from my bed to the kitchen or bathroom.”

“Well, I’ll help you with that! Now, you need to actually get some proper rest if you’re going to get any better!” Aziraphale started to pick up your pillows and blankets. He paused once he saw your stuffed animal tumble out of the pile. “That is simply adorable!” he chimed and picked it up with the rest of your things before trotting off to your room.

You buried your face in your hands before slowly following him. You peaked through your fingers and saw Aziraphale smoothing out the blankets and placed the stuffed animal on top of them. You groaned to yourself and went to stand next to him.

“There! Now,” Aziraphale turned to face you. “You sit here and rest. I’ll bring your tea in and then I’ll work on the soup, alright?” Before you could say anything about not having any ingredients or a can of soup, he left you in a state of confusion.

It was only a matter of a couple of minutes before Aziraphale came in with a hot cup of tea. He set it gently down on your end table before hurrying back off to the kitchen to work on the non-existent soup. You were almost waiting for him to come back in to see if you wanted something else to eat or for him to just leave the apartment. Much to your astonishment, however, Aziraphale came back in with a warm bowl of soup.

“What the…”

You watched with wide eyes as he sat next to you on your bed while holding the bowl. It didn’t even look like a bowl of canned soup that had way too much sodium. This looked like homemade soup. Freshly cut carrots, celery, and onions were floating with bits of chicken. A variety of spices added more color, too. Then the noodles looked like they were freshly made and not store-bought.

“Aziraphale,” you whispered while staring into the bowl. “How did you make this?”

“Oh, well,” Aziraphale trailed off laughing. “I just added all of the ingredients together and followed a recipe.”

“Okay, but I know for a fact I didn’t have these ingredients in my kitchen. And you didn’t have anything with you when you came here. And this kind of thing takes a while to make, not a couple of minutes longer than brewing tea.”

“Well, I…You snoozed off after I brought in the tea.”

“The tea is still hot.” Aziraphale glanced towards the mug to see it was, in fact, still emitting a cloud of steam. “And I didn’t fall asleep. How did you do this?”

“Well, soup always comes out so quickly at restaurants, I thought it would only take a minute or two to make!” Aziraphale cried. “I didn’t think you’d notice that you didn’t have the ingredients, either.”

“I haven’t been able to go grocery shopping for a week; I don’t have the ingredients for anything. What is happening, Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale stared at you for a moment. Desperation seemed evident in the way he frowned and the way his eyes screamed the emotion. He placed a hand on yours for a moment before taking it back. He sighed and felt his shoulder slump down.

“I…I understand if you do not want anything to do with me once I tell you. But please do not panic when I tell you. I don’t want you to have issues breathing because of me. And just know that you mean the world to me and I truly do love you. And I would not do anything to ever hurt you, but the truth is I am an angel. I miracled the soup and I even made it have healing properties. I…I have wings, too.”

“You love me?” you cut off his rambling.

Aziraphale froze and looked at you with wide eyes. He nodded his head. “Yes…Very much so.”

You smiled. “I love you, too…Wait, you’re an angel?”

Aziraphale looked conflicted on what he wanted to focus on more. The fact that you both had just confessed or the him being an angel bit. He decided to take your hand to show his affection while saying, “Yes, I’m an angel. I could show you my wings if you’d like.”

You gave his hand a squeeze and nodded your head eagerly. In a moment, white wings appeared behind Aziraphale. They folded in on his body to avoid knocking over your tea or hitting the furniture in your room. You looked at him in astonishment and reached your free hand out to touch them. They were soft and cool to the touch. Which, with your slight fever, felt incredible against your skin. Aziraphale closed his eyes and hummed in content as you stroked his feathers.

“I have so many questions,” you muttered.

Aziraphale opened his eyes and gave a soft smile. “Ask away, my dear.”

You shifted slightly but shook your head. “I think I’ll wait for when I can think more clearly.”

“As you wish,” Aziraphale said with a smile. “Now! Eat the soup, it’ll make you heal all that much faster!”

You took a couple of bites before stopping and looking up at the angel. “Thank you, Aziraphale. I love you.”

Aziraphale gave a soft smile and kissed your forehead. “I love you, too, [Y/N].”

[kurgarru]

But why is it St James’ Park that Crowley and Aziraphale use for their extremely incognito rendezvous point, for centuries?

We know Crowley’s particular brand of evil is niggling annoyance, and he particularly enjoys getting humans to screw with themselves. Please feast your eyes on the notoriously pornographic poem “A Ramble in St James’ Park”, composed (probably in the early 1670s) by one of the most infamously provocative men of history, that chaotic bisexual human gadfly John Wilmot, the 2nd Earl of Rochester:

“Much wine had passed, with grave discourse

Of who fucks who, and who does worse

(Such as you usually do hear

From those that diet at the Bear),

When I, who still take care to see

Drunkenness relieved by lechery,

Weent out into St. James's Park

To cool my head and fire my heart.

But though St. James has th' honor on 't,

'Tis consecrate to prick and cunt.

There, by a most incestuous birth,

Strange woods spring from the teeming earth;

For they relate how heretofore,

When ancient Pict behan to whore,

Deluded of his assignation

(Jilting, it seems, was then in fashion),

Poor pensive lover, in this place

Would frig upon his mother's face;

Whence rows of mandrakes tall did rise

Whose lewd tops fucked the very skies.

Each imitative branch does twine

In some loved fold of Aretine,

And nightly now beneath their shade

Are buggeries, rapes, and incests made.

Unto this all-sin-sheltering grove

Whores of the bulk and the alcove,

Great ladies, chambermaids, and drudges,

The ragpicker, and heiress trudges.

Carmen, divines, great lords, and tailors,

Prentices, poets, pimps, and jailers,

Footmen, fine fops do here arrive,

And here promiscuously they swive.

Along these hallowed walks it was

That I beheld Corinna pass.

Whoever had been by to see

The proud disdain she cast on me

Through charming eyes, he would have swore

She dropped from heaven that very hour,

Forsaking the divine abode

In scorn of some despairing god.

But mark what creatures women are:

How infinitely vile, when fair!

Three knights o' the' elbow and the slur

With wriggling tails made up to her.

The first was of your Whitehall baldes,

Near kin t' th' Mother of the Maids;

Graced by whose favor he was able

To bring a friend t' th' Waiters' table,

Where he had heard Sir Edward Sutton

Say how the King loved Banstead mutton;

Since when he'd ne'er be brought to eat

By 's good will any other meat.

In this, as well as allthe rest,

He ventures to do like the best,

But wanting common sense, th' ingredient

In choosing well not least expedient,

Converts abortive imitation

To universal affectation.

Thus he not only eats and talks

But feels and smells, sits down and walks,

Nay looks, and lives, and loves by rote,

In an old tawdry birthday coat.

The second was a Grays Inn wit,

A great inhabiter of the pit,

Where critic-like he sits and squints,

Steals pocket handkerchiefs, and hints

From 's neighbor, and the comedy,

To court, and pay, his landlady.

The third, a lady's eldest son

Within few years of twenty-one

bWho hopes from his propitious fate,

Against he comes to his estate,

By these two worthies to be made

A most accomplished tearing blade.

One, in a strain 'twixt tune and nonsense,

Cries, "Madam, I have loved you long since.

Permit me your fair hand to kiss";

When at her mouth her cunt cries, "Yes!"

In short, without much more ado,

Joyful and pleased, away she flew,

And with these three confounded asses

From park to hackney coach she passes.

So a proud bitch does lead about

Of humble curs the amorous rout,

Who most obsequiously do hunt

The savory scent of salt-swoln cunt.

Some power more patient now relate

The sense of this surprising fate.

Gods! that a thing admired by me

Should fall to so much infamy.

Had she picked out, to rub her arse on,

Some stiff-pricked clown or well-hung parson,

Each job of whose spermatic sluice

Had filled her cunt with wholesome juice,

I the proceeding should have praised

In hope sh' had quenched a fire I raised.

Such natural freedoms are but just:

There's something generous in mere lust.

But to turn a damned abandoned jade

When neither head nor tail persuade;

To be a whore in understanding,

A passive pot for fools to spend in!

The devil played booty, sure, with thee

To bring a blot on infamy.

But why am I, of all mankind,

To so severe a fate designed?

Ungrateful! Why this treachery

To humble fond, believing me,

Who gave you privilege above

The nice allowances of love?

Did ever I refuse to bear

The meanest part your lust could spare?

When your lewd cunt came spewing home

Drenched with the seed of half the town,

My dram of sperm was supped up after

For the digestive surfeit water.

Full gorged at another time

With a vast meal of slime

Which your devouring cunt had drawn

From porters' backs and footmen's brawn,

I was content to serve you up

My ballock-full for your grace cup,

Nor ever thought it an abuse

While you had pleasure for excuse -

You tht could make my heart away

For noise and color, and betray

The secrets of my tender hours

To such knight-errant paramours,

When, leaning on your faithless breast,

Wrapped in security and rest,

Soft kindness all my powers did move,

And reason lay dissolved in love!

brkMay stinking vapors choke your womb

Such as the men you dote upon

May your depraved appetite,

That could in whiffling fools delight,

Beget such frenzies in your mind

You may go mad for the north wind,

And fixing all your hopes upon't

To have him bluster in your cunt,

Turn up your longing arse t' th' air

And perish in a wild despair!

But cowards shall forget to rant,

Schoolboys to frig, old whores to paint;

The Jesuits' fraternity

Shall leave the use of buggery;

Crab-louse, inspired with grace divine,

From earthly cod to heaven shall climb;

Physicians shall believe in Jesus,

And disobedience cease to please us,

Ere I desist with all my power

To plague this woman and undo her.

But my revenge will best be timed

When she is married that is limed.

In that most lamentable state

I'll make her feel my scorn and hate:

Pelt her with scandals, truth or lies,

And her poor cur with jealousied,

Till I have torn him from her breech,

While she whines like a dog-drawn bitch;

Loathed and despised, kicked out o' th' Town

Into some dirty hole alone,

To chew the cud of misery

And know she owes it all to me.

And may no woman better thrive

That dares prophane the cunt I swive!”

Headcanon: Crowley takes Aziraphale to St James’ Park in the way a person might hopefully take a date to an arthouse film they’d heard was exceptionally horny but plausibly deniable.