Someone to Play the Devil


Devil's in the kitchen, he's gonna serve it well

And his voice sounds so damned lovely,

I only wish I could bellow honks so swell.

You think you can stay away, but he's among us every day.

And without him around, I wouldn't know what to say.


We have to be fighting something, some conflict

To pull us along

The story that makes us who we are

Otherwise, for what reason

Would we even bother to sing a song?


He's up here, cooking up something good,

Just to see how we digest

This awful substance of abuse and constant unrest.

Is he up there, you know, in Heaven? Or the other place?

Maybe one of Hell's angels know what's most tasteful

And are at work, to teach us what's good, by

Virtue of what's painful.


He's not one entity, never linear,

Just fragments of your own demise

Put enough of these fiends together, and you'll deprave

Yourself of quite an unruly surprise.


Don't bother looking around, for it wasn't just one cook

Who was responsible for this

Hearty meal of harlotry, tricks, and personal demise?

It's never just one, but becomes a whole crew

In order to do such nasty, wicked, powerful things to you.


Put a face to the hate if it makes you feel any better

But doing so only makes the chase more difficult.

You must break it down into pieces, carefully,

And admit the harshest of truths

That we are all just chemical bodies is criminal.


That he is not the enemy, but within us,

Stuck inside our little call booth.

"Help!" I scream, into the payphone. "Is anyone there, anyone at all?"

"No. Serve me up some new words," is all that I can recall.

"Do you hear that?" I ask no one in particular,

Mostly the wall.

"Maybe. I can't really hear anything. Everything's all right," he replied,

Not wanting her to be all alone in her night.


Worse than anything I could ever imagine

Would be to contend with the truth that we are not in charge

Of our own fight against indignation.

Even the words on this page is just a chemical chain,

Thoughts that really have no meaning at all.

The only meaning is that which I have assigned to it,

And that meaning is nothing without the knowledge of all

That which we find most decrepit.


Just as the stars could not shine without the night

That thankfully give us a false sense of order in the chaos,

To deny the necessity of evil itself

Would be thinking of the utmost archaic.