A Cheating Preacher by Ambrose Bierce

Munhall, to have my soul you bravely try, Although, to save my soul, I can’t say why. ’Tis naught to you, to me however much⁠— Why, bless it! you might save a million such, Yet lose your own; for still the “means of grace” That you employ to turn us from the place By the arch-enemy of souls frequented Are those which to ensnare us he invented! I do not say you utter falsehoods⁠—I Would scorn to give to ministers the lie: They cannot fight⁠—their calling has estopped it. True, I did not persuade them to adopt it. But, Munhall, when you say the Devil dwells In all the breasts of all the infidels⁠— Making a lot of individual Hells, You talk as I should if some world I trod Where lying is acceptable to God. I don’t at all object⁠—forbid it Heaven!⁠— That your discourse you temperately leaven With airy reference to wicked souls Cursing impenitent on glowing coals, Nor quarrel with your fancy, blithe and fine, Which represents the wickedest as mine. Each ornament of style my spirit eases: The subject saddens, but the manner pleases. But when you “deal damnation round” ’twere sweet To think hereafter that you did not cheat. Deal, and let all accept what you allot ’em; But, blast you! you are dealing from the bottom!