When you sing about the Devil, the Devil pricks his ears
He gets his ole brass guitar out as the stars cast down their spears
He works a bucking bass line, but this my dear is true
When you sing about the devil, pray he doesn’t sing to you.
For just because he grins and sings, don’t mean he’s not the devil
And just because he likes a laugh, don’t mean he isn’t evil
He’s built a road to hell you see, like they did on old broadway
By sinner’s good intentions and a new song every day.
The songs of hell, lack melody: the songs of hell are rust
Upon the instruments of pain, a-lying in the dust
The singer he is leather clad, with piercings at the throat, he
Emits a deep forbidding croak, trachectomy Karoki.
A hideous, tearing, ghastly, sound like rupturing aorta
‘cept when he sings to metal-freaks and then he’s like Sinatra.
And if those last two couplets at the bottom rhymes they scrape, er
Well down in hell they rhyme far worse than aught I put on paper.
So break your ear-drums when you die with the coins plucked from your eyes
Or hope you’ll get celestial choirs all singing as you rise
But if you get the Devil with guitar pick in his hand
Well tell him that I sent you and at least you’ll join the band.
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