Never fuck over a poet,

who thinks that you are a friend,

Or sell him out for silver and gold

He'll have his revenge in the end.

He'll pray to the angels in heaven,

In a voice that rings like a bell

But then if heaven is silent,

he'll pound on the gates of hell.

The devil will answer his summons,

He's got a weak spot for a rhyme,

The devil will offer a contract

The poet will sign on the line.

The poet's inventive,

The devil attentive,

They start with a slaughter

Then really begin.

Oh he'll have your balls for breakfast

liver and lights for tea

Feed the rest to the junkyard dog

and throw the bones in the sea.

Then bury your skull at the crossroads

as the sound of the devil's guitar

pins your soul to the sign post

with music as  bright as a star.

Now the devil's playing a twelve string

made by Pardini himself

Leadbelly's  Stella was stolen

and found on a pawnshop shelf.

The slide's made from a Black Jack bottle

broke in a bar room fight

The strings are double wound steel

tempered in hell's fire light.

The devil has written the music

The Father of lies telling true

Heaven's loss, Earth's sorrow, Hell's pain

The Devil's a bluesman for sure.

In the East a grey line

announces the sun

the last chord is played

The devil is done.

Hand in hand, Devil and poet descend

Arguing about the C tuning

Leaving you there at the crossroads

winding and twisting and turning.

Abandoned by heaven, shut out of hell,

Tethered to earth  sea and sky

dismembered and scattered and left in the dirt

you know that you never can die.

Never fuck over a poet,

who thinks that you are a friend,

Or sell him out for silver and gold

He'll have his revenge in the end.