Devil of a Time
I met the devil on a Friday night.
We danced to the phat bari sax.
Smoke choked out any words I could say,
Paying a heavy tax.
The sky was maroon with contemptible past,
The sound iridescently smooth.
The trombone a-swung to the rhythm of us,
Burning a hole in the truth.
I met the devil on a Friday night,
Then woke up on Saturday lone.
I wish; I made this whole story up.
There's no one to call on the phone.
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