Deuce Buffalo

Deuce Buffalo is greater.
He doesn't fuck. He's way too good for that.
He stands. Miles above the sobbing masses;
head in the clouds, he stomps his steel-toed boots
straight
down to hell.
He stomps his steel-toed feet
straight
down Satan's grimy throat. Satan cries
for the first time since college.
Deuce doesn't pay his taxes. He is his taxes.
When He drinks. The world spins itself
while Deuce stands magnificently still.
His leavings smell like glory.
His tears taste like joy.
His cologne is triumph.
His suits are made from success.

Deuce Buffalo is better than us.
He is us.