My favorite work by my favorite artist:
The Devil and Billy Markham By Shel Silverstein
Video of Part One (click here)Billy Markham and the FlyBilly Markham slowly turns on a white-hot steel spit,
And his skin, it crackles like roasting pig, and his flesh is seared and split,
And sulphur fills his nostrils and heÂ’s fed on slime and mud,
By a hairy imp with a pointed stick who bastes him in spiderÂ’s blood.
And his eyeballs boil up inside his skull and his throatÂ’s too charred to scream,
So he sleeps the sleep of the burning dead and he dreams unspeakable dreams.
Then in walks the Devil in a big yellow hat as Bill hears the Hell gates clanginÂ’
And the Devil wipes off his bloody hands and says, “Hey, Bill, how’re they hanging?
IÂ’m sorry we couldnÂ’t give you a pit with a view, but right now thisÂ’ the best we got,
But as soon as weÂ’re done with Attila the Hun, weÂ’ll move you right into his spot.
Have you met your neighbors, have you heard ‘em scream? Do they keep you awake in the fire?
Hey, a little more brimstone for number nine — and stoke up the heat a bit higher.
Ah, you just canÂ’t get good help these days, and there ainÂ’t much profit in Hell.
No — turn that adulteress upside down — do I have to do everything myself?
I tell you, Bill, itÂ’s a full-time job, tending these white- hot coals,
So damn busy with paperwork, I hardly got time for collecting new souls.
Which brings me to the subject of my little visit. Now, youÂ’re one of them natural-born gamblinÂ’ men,
And IÂ’ll bet youÂ’d give most anything just to get them dice in your hands again.
So instead of swimming in this muck and slime and burninÂ’ crisp as toast . . .
I’ll trade you one roll of the dice for the soul of the one who loves you most.”
“Trade the soul of the one who loves me most? Not a chance in Hell I will!”
“Spoken like a hero,” the Devil says. “Hey, a little more fire for Bill.”
“You can burn me, roast me or bake me,” says Billy. “Go have your fiendish fun.
A coward dies a thousand times — a brave man checks out once.”
“Hey, Billy, that’s poetic,” the Devil says, “but life ain’t like no rhyme,
And I know ways to make a brave man die a million times.”
“Then do it, motherfucker!” Billy Markham screams. “But I won’t trade love away.”
“That’s what they all say,” the Devil laughs, “but when I turn up the fire, they play.”
And the flame burns white and BillÂ’s flesh burns black and he smells his roasting stink,
And the Hell rats nibbble upon his nose . . . and Billy begins to think.
He thinks of his childhood sweetheart who loved him through his crazy days . . .
He thinks of his gray-haired mamma, Hell, sheÂ’s gettinÂ’ old anyway.
He thinks of his baby daughter — he wrote her a card last fall . . .
Then the Devil does somethin’ even I won’t describe . . . and Billy screams, “Take ‘em all!”
And — Zap! — again he’s back at Linebaugh’s, kneeling on that same old floor,
And across from him the Devil kneels, ready to play once more.
And Bill gently feels the LinebaughÂ’s tile littered with git and grime
And he sees his friends in the booths all around as they chew their nails and rhyme their rhymes.
And he hears the jukebox blaring loud, and smells the perfume and the piss,
And he breathes in deep of the smoke-filled air, and he thinks, “How sweet it is.”
“Well, are you ready to shoot some craps?” he hears the Devil cry,
“Or you gonna sit all night and stroke that floor like you stroke a young girl’s thigh?”
And as Billy takes the dice, he knows that if he wins,
Then Hades will have been a dream, and his soul will be his again.
“I guess my point is still thirteen?” Billy Markham asks.
“The point’s the same,” the Devil sneers, “and the stakes are still your ass.”
“Well, one never knows,” Billy Markham says, “when luck’s gonna smile on a man,
And if a charcoal corpse from Hell can’t roll thirteen, then who the Hell can?”
And Billy Markham shakes the dice and whispers, “Please, thirteen.”
And the dice roll out a six . . . and a six . . . and then, as if in a dream . . .
A buzzing fly from a plate nearby, like a messenger sent from heaven,
Shits — right in the middle of one of them sixes — and turns it into a seven.
“Thirteen!” yells Billy Markham. “I have beat the Devil’s play.”
“The Hell you have,” the Devil says, and . . . whoosh. . . he blows that speck away.
“Which goes to prove,” the Devil says, “that Hell’s too big to buck,
And when you’re gambling for your ass, don’t count on flyshit luck.”
“Well, that’s life,” sighs Billy Markham, “and it never lasts for long,
Buy y’know that fly shittin’ on that die would have made one Hell of a song.”
“You’re a songwriting fool,” the Devil laughs. “There ain’t no doubt about it.
As soon as you go lose one damn game, you wanna write a song about it.
But there’s a whole lot more to life and death than the words and tunes you give ‘em.
And any fool can sing the blues — let’s see if you can live ‘em.”
Then — Zap! — Billy wakes up back in Hell, turning on that same steel spit,
And again his skin crackles like roasting pork, and his flesh is seared and split,
And his mouth is filled with molten lead and his ass with red- hot coals,
And next to him the Devil squats — and laughs — and wipes his ass with Billy Markham’s soul.
And he hears the screams of his momma as she turns in the purple flame.
And he hears the cries of his baby girl as she pays the price of his game.
He hears the voice of his own true love laugh like a child at play,
As she sucks the DevilÂ’s brains out in her own sweet lovinÂ’ way.
And buzzin’ ‘cross Bill’s burnin’ bones and landing on his starin’ eye
And nibblinÂ’ on his roastinÂ’ flesh
Is that grinninÂ’ LinebaughÂ’s fly.
Billy Markham’s Last Roll“Good morning, Billy Markham, it’s time to rise and shine.”
The DevilÂ’s words come grindinÂ’ into BillyÂ’s burninÂ’ mind.
And he opens up one bloodshot eye to that world of living death,
And he feels the DevilÂ’s bony claw and he smells the DevilÂ’s rotten breath.
“Wake up, Sunshine!” the Devil laughs. “I’m giving you another turn.”
“I’m turning now,” Billy Markham growls. “Go away and let me burn.”
“But you’re Gamblin’ Billy Markham,” says the Devil, “and you wouldn’t let a chance go past.”
“Another chance to roll thirteen?” says Billy. “Hey, shove it up your ass.
I’ve rolled your dice, I’ve rolled ‘em twice. Now I hear my love ones cry,
And before I play that game again, I’ll stay here in Hell and fry.”
“You sure are a grouch when you wake up,” says the Devil, “but don’t take it out on me.
In the misty worlds of Heaven and Hell, Bill, everything’s done in threes.”
“Well, you can take three kisses of my burning bum,” says Billy, layin’ back and closing his eyes,
“And I’ll piss on your shoe, if ever you come near me again with them flyshit dice.”
“Dice? Dice?” says the Devil. “Who said dice? Anybody hear me say dice?
Hey, imp, pour my buddy here a cool glass of water, and throw in a nice big chunk of ice.”
“And since when,” says Billy, raisin’ up, “do you go around handing out gifts,
Except pokes from your burning pitchfork or mouthfuls of boiling shit?”
“Well, it’s Christmas,” says the Devil, “and all of us down here below,
We sort of celebrate in our own sweet way, and this year youÂ’re the star of the show.
Why, just last night I was up on earth and I seen that loversÂ’ moon,
And I said to myself, ‘Hey, I bet old Billy could use a little bit of poon.”
“Poon?” says Billy Markham. “Last thing I need is poon.
Talk about gettin’ my ashes hauled, Hell, I’ll be all ashes soon.”
“Damn, damn!” the Devil screams. “He’s been too long on the fires.
I told you imps to fry him slow, now you gone and burned out his desire.
You gotta leave ‘em some hope, leave ‘em some dreams, so they know what Hell is for,
‘Cause when a man forgets how sweet love is, well, Hell ain’t Hell no more.
So just to refresh your memory, Billy, weÂ’re gonna send you back to earth
And IÂ’ll throw in a little Christmas blessinÂ’ to remind you what life is worth.
For exactly thirteen hours you can screw who you wanna screw
And there ainÂ’t no creature on GodÂ’s green earth whoÂ’s gonna say no to you.
While me and all these burning souls and all my imps and fiends,
WeÂ’re gonna sit down here and watch you on that big twenty-four-inch color screen.
And weÂ’ll see each hump youÂ’re humping, and weÂ’ll hear each grunt you groan,
And we’ll laugh at the look upon your face when it’s time to come back home.”
“Well, you’re much too kind,” Billy Markham says. “And you treat me much too well.
You gonna give me somethin’ just to take it back — you sure know how to run a Hell.
Well, a game is a game,” Billy Markham says, risin’ off his bed of coals.
“But what if one won’t ball me, what if one I want says no?”
“No?” says the Devil. “What if one says no? Ain’t nobody gonna say no.
Nobody quits or calls in sick when the Devil calls the show.
Not man nor woman nor beast!” screams the Devil, “and no laters or maybes or buts,
And before one soul says no to you, IÂ’ll see these Hell gates rust.
But if anyone refuses you, I say, anyone you name,
Then you’ll be free to stay on earth. Now get out and play the game!”
Then a flash of light and a thunderclap and BillyÂ’s back on earth once more
And the asphalt sings beneath his feet as he weaves toward Music Row.
First he stops at the Exit Inn to seduce the blonde on the door,
Then the RCA receptionist he takes on the office floor.
He nails the waitress down at Macks, the one with the pear-shaped breasts,
And four of the girls from B.M.I. right on Frances PrestonÂ’s desk.
He screws his way from M.C.A. to VanderbiltÂ’s ivy walls.
And he pokes everything that giggles or sings or whimpers or wiggles or crawls.
First Debbie, then Polly, then Dotty, then Dolly then Jeannie, and Jessie, and Jan,
Then Marshall and Sal and that redheaded gal who takes the tickets at Opryland.
Then Hazel and Carla and an ex-wife of HarlanÂ’s then Melva and Marge and Marie,
And three fat Gospel singers who all came together in perfect three-part harmony.
And Brenda and Sammy and Sharon and Sandy, Loretta and Buffy and Mae.
And Terri and Lynne at the Holiday Inn and Captain Midnight’s fiancée.
Then Sherry and Rita, Diane and Anita, Olivia, Emmy and Jean,
And Donna and Kay down at Elliston Place — right there in the pinto beans.
He crashes a session in Studio B, where he humps both Janet and June
On John GimbleÂ’s fiddle, right in the middle of a Porter Wagoner tune.
From Connie to Bonnie to Caroline, to Tracy, to Stacy, to Jo,
He gives ‘em a glance and they drop their pants and nobody dares say no.
He is humpinÂ’ the Queen of country music, when he hears the Devil moan.
“Make it sweet, Billy Markham, but make it short, you’ve got just thirty seconds to go.
And all of us here, weÂ’re applauding your show and weÂ’d say you done right well,
And we just can’t wait to hear you moan when you’re fuckless forever in Hell.”
“Hold on!” says Billy with one last thrust. “If I got thirty seconds mo’,
Then I got the right to one last hump before it’s time to go.”
“Well, make your choice,” the Devil says, “and you’d better be quick and strong,
And make it a come to remember, Bill — it’s gotta last you eternity long.”
“So who will it be, Billy Markham?” they scream. “Who’s gonna be the one?
Starlet or harlot or housewife or hippie or grandma or shoolgirl or nun?
Or fresh-scented virgin or dope-smoking groupie or sweet ever-smilin’ stew?”
And Billy Markham, he stops. . .and he squints at the Devil. . .and says. . .”Sucker. . .I’ll take you.”
“Foul!” cries the Devil. “Foul, no fair! The rules don’t hold for me.”
“You said man or woman or beast,” says Bill, “and I guess you’re all of the three.”
And a roar goes up from the demons of Hell and it shakes the earth across,
And the imps all squeal and the demons scream, “He’s gonna fuck the boss!”
“Why, you filthy scum,” the Devil snarls, blushing a fiery red,
“I give you a chance to live again and you bust me in front of my friends.”
“Hey, play or pay,” Billy Markham says. “So set me free at last,
Or raise your tail and hear all Hell wail when I bugger your devilish ass.”
“You got me,” spits the Devil. “Go on and stay on your precious earth,
And plod along and plug your songs, but carry this life-long curse.
You shall lust for a million women, and not oneÂ’s gonna come your way,
And you shall write ten million songs and not oneÂ’s ever gonna get played.
And your momma and daughter and your own true love, they gonna stay down here with me,
And you’ll carry the guilt like a movable Hell, wherever the Hell you be.”
“Ah, well,” says Billy Markham, “they never were mine to lose,
No family, no pussy and no records, Hell, I’m used to them kind of dues.”
So back on the streets goes Billy again, eatinÂ’ them LinebaughÂ’s beans,
PickinÂ’ his songs while nobody listens and tellinÂ’ his story that no one believes.
And he gets no women and he gets no hits, but he says just what he thinks.
Hey, buy him a round. . .it wonÂ’t cost much . . .ice waterÂ’s all he drinks.
But notice the burns upon his wrist as he raises his tremblinÂ’ glass,
While he tells how the Devil once burned his soul – While he singed the Devil’s ass.
Billy, Scuzzy, and God ItÂ’s the Nashville Country Corner, all the low are getting high.
And Billy tells his tale again to anyone whoÂ’ll buy.
With waving arms and rolling eyes, he screams to the drunken throng,
“I’ve whipped the Devil and lived through Hell, now who’s gonna sing my song?”
Then from the shadows comes an oily voice, “Hey, kid, I like your moves.”
And out of the back slides a little wizened cat with brown-and-white perforated wing-tip shoes.
“Sleezo’s the name,” the little man says, “but I’m Scuzzy to my friends.
And I think I got a little business proposition you just might be interested in.”
“Scuzzy Sleezo hisself,” Billy Markham says. “Man, you’re a legend in these woods.
You never cut the Devil down, but you done damn near as good.
Why, since I been old enough to jack, I been hearinÂ’ your greasy name.
It’s an honor to meet an all-star Scuzz. Just where you settin’ up your game?”
“No more games for me,” says Scuzzy. “I’m too old and too slow for the pace,
So IÂ’m the worldÂ’s greatest hustlerÂ’s agent now and, Billy, I been studyinÂ’ your case.
I seen your first match with the Devil,” says Scuzz, “it was a Volkswagen/Mack truck collision,
And your second shot, well, you showed me a lot, but you got burned by a hometown decision.
And I says to myself, ‘He can go all the way, with the proper guidance, of course.
HeÂ’s got the heart, and with a few more smarts, heÂ’d be an irresistible force.Â’
Yeah, I can teach you the tricks and show you the shticks, just like a hustlerÂ’s training camp.
And I’ll bring you on slow — then a prelim or so — then — Powee! — a shot at the Champ.”
“The Champ?” says Billy Markham. “Now, who in God’s name is that?”
“Why, God Himself,” says Scuzzy Sleezo. “You know anybody more champ than that?”
“Hey, a match with God?” Billy Markham gasps. “And what would be the purse?”
“Why, a place in heaven, of course,” says Scuzz, “’stead of livin’ this Nashville curse.
But IÂ’ll drive you like a wagon, son, and IÂ’ll sweat you like a Turk,
All for fifty percent of the take — now, shake, and let’s get to work.”
Now the scene shifts to the funky pool hall known as the Crystal Cue
And the time is three months later, and the smoke is thick and blue,
And the emerald cloth is stained with tears and blood and ketchup spots,
As a fat old man with a dirty white beard stands practicinÂ’ three- cushion shots.
“Hey, what are we doin’ here?” says Billy to Scuzz. “I been taught and I been trained,
And I don’t need no more prelims, I am primed for the Big, Big Game.”
“Well, son,” says the old man, sinkin’ the four, “why don’t you pick yourself out a cue, and. . . .”
“Hey, Santa Claus,” Billy Markham snaps back, “wasn’t nobody talkin’ to you.”
“Um. . .if you look close,” whispers Scuzzy to Bill, “you’ll see his cue is a lightnin’ rod,
And he ain’t no Santa, and he ain’t Fat Daddy. . .you just showed your ass to God.”
“Well, hey, excuse me, Lord,” says Bill, “I didn’t mean to be uncool,
But it sure can shake a fellah’s faith to find God hustling pool.”
“Well, where you expect to find me,” says God, “on a throne with cherubs round?
Well, I do that five days and nights a week, and on the sixth night. . .I get down.”
“And on the seventh night I suppose you rest?” says Billy Markham with a grin.
“Never you mind about the seventh night,” says God. “Besides, that lady’s just a friend.
Anyway, you didn’t come here just to drag my image down.”
“You’re right ’bout that, Lord,” Billy says. “I come to take your crown.”
“Beg pardon, Lord,” says Scuzzy Sleezo, “I don’t mean no disrespect,
But when youÂ’re dealing with my boy, donÂ’t speak to him direct.
IÂ’m his agent and consultant, Scuzzy Sleezo is the name,
Premier Promotional ArtistÂ’s Representative of the whole street-hustlinÂ’ game.
Cardsharps, loan sharks, pimps, punks and car parks, IÂ’ve handled the best of the lot,
And my new boy here, he just whipped the Devil — now we’re lookin’ for a title shot.”
“Beat the Devil, you say?” laughs God. “Well, I take my hat off to him.
Let him hang up his mouth and pick out a cue and heÂ’ll get the shot thatÂ’s due him.
Any game he names — any table he’s able — any price he can afford.”
“Straight pool for Heaven,” says Billy Markham.
“Straight pool it is,” says the Lord.
Crack! Billy Markham wins the break and busts ‘em cool and clean.
The five ball falls, he sinks the seven, and then drops the 13.
He makes the nine, comes off the cushion and puts the six away,
Bags the three and the eight on a triple combination and wins the first game on a smooth massé.
He takes the next game, the next and the next, and when he does finally miss,
He dusts the blue off his hands, and his game score stands at 1376.
“Well, my turn at last,” says the Lord, chalkin’ up. “Son, you sure shoot a wicked stick.
I’ll need some luck to beat a run like that; that is, without resorting to miracles or tricks.”
“Hey, trick and be damned,” Billy Markham laughs. “Tonight I’m as hot as flame.
So I laugh at your tricks — and I sneer at your stick — and I take your name in vain.”
“Oooh”, goes the crowd that’s been gathering around. “Oooh”, goes the rack boy in wonder.
“Oooh”, says Scuzzy Sleezo, “I think you just made a slight tactical blunder.”
“Oooh”, says God, “you shouldn’t have said that, son, you shouldn’t have said that at all!”
And his cue cracks out like a thunderbolt spittinÂ’ a flaminÂ’ ball.
It sinks everything on the table, then it zooms up off the green,
Through the dirty window with a crash of glass and into the wind like a womanÂ’s scream,
Out of the pool hall, up through the skies, the cue ball gleams and swirls,
BustinÂ’ in and out of every pool game in the world.
It strikes on every table, it crashes every rack,
And every pool ball in creation comes rebounding back!
Back through the window they tumble and crash, down through the ceiling they spin.
A million balls rain down on the table and every one goes in.
“Now, there”, says Scuzzy Sleezo, “is a shot you don’t see every day.
Lord, you should have an agent to handle your press and build up the class of your play.
My partnership with this sucker here has come to a termination.
But God and Scuzzy Sleezo? Hey, that would be a combination.”
Meanwhile, the cue ball flyinÂ’ back last, like a sputterinÂ’ fizzlinÂ’ rocket,
Goes weaving dizzily down the cushion and — plunk! — falls right in the pocket.
“Scratch!” says Billy Markham. “And you said you could shoot!”
“Scratch!” murmurs the crowd of hangers and hustlers. “At last we have seen it all.
“Scratch!” mutters the Lord. “I guess I put a little too much English on the ball,
Just another imperfection, I never get it quite on the button.
Tell you what, son, I’ll spot you three million balls and play you one more double or nothin’.”
“Double what?” says Billy Markham. “I already whipped you like a child,
And I won my seat in Heaven, now I’m gonna set in it awhile.”
“Hit-and-run — chickenshit,” sneers God. “You said you was the best.
Turns out you’re just a get-lucky-play-it-safe pussy like all the rest.”
“Whoa-whoa”, says Billy. “There’s somethin’ in that voice I know quite well.”
And he reaches out and yanks off God’s white beard — and there stands the Devil himself!
“You said you was God”, Billy Markham cries. “You conned me and hustled me, too!”
“I am God — sometimes — and sometimes I’m the Devil, good and bad, just like you.
IÂ’m everything and everyone in perfect combination,
And everybody but you kows that there ainÂ’t no separation.
But go ahead,” sighs God, scribbling something down. “Give this note to the angel on the wall,
And you sit up there ‘n’ plunk your harp.
Hey, anybody want to shoot some eight ball?”
And cold and white and tremblinÂ’, Billy walks out into the night,
Where a golden staircase stretches all the way to paradise.
And he grips the glitterinÂ’ balustrade and begins his grand ascent.
“Just a minute, good buddy”, yells Scuzzy Sleezo. “How about my fifty percent?
I helped you win the champeenship — and you wouldn’t do ol’ Scuzzy wrong,
And since the purse is a seat in Heaven, you just gotta take me along.”
“Just one minute”, says Billy Markham. “There’s something weird going on in this game.
All the voices that I’m hearin’ start to soundin’ just the same.”
And he rips off Scuzzy SleezoÂ’s face and the DevilÂ’s standing there.
“Good God,” yells Billy Markham, “are you — are you everywhere?”
“Yes, I am,” the Devil says. “And don’t look so damn surprised.
I thought you could smuggle me into Heaven wearing my Sleezy disguise.
‘Course, I could’ve walked in as Jehovah, but it just wouldn’t have been the same,
But you and your corny Dick Tracy bit — you had to go ruin my fantasy game.
Go on, climb up your golden stairs, enjoy your paradise,
But don’t rip off your own face, Bill — or you might get a shockin’ surprise.”
Then up, up the golden stairway Billy Markham dizzily winds his way,
And high, high above him, he can hear his own songs beinÂ’ played,
And down, down below, hear Scuzzy Sleezo curse his name, To the click-click-click of the pool balls
As God hustles another game.
Billy MarkhamÂ’s DescentBilly Markham sits on an unwashed cloud, his hair is matted and mussed,
His dusty wings have been cast aside and his harp strings have gone to rust.
ThereÂ’s dirt beneath his fingernails and a glazed look in his eyes
As he sits like a burned-out acid freak and stares across the skies.
They had bathed his body in milk and myrrh; they had robed him in silver gowns;
They had straightened his warp in his guitar neck, and gave him a golden crown;
They had set him a place at the table of joy and the fountain of knowledge, as well,
But he searches the heavens with haunted eyes — for his mind still walks through Hell.
His thoughts are down in that nether world, in that burning fiery rain.
His thoughts are with his momma, how he longs to soothe her pain.
His thoughts are with his little girl, how heÂ’d love to ease her cryinÂ’.
His thoughts are with his own true love, how heÂ’d love to bust her spine.
So late that night, while the heavenly harps play In the Sweet Bye and Bye,
Billy Markham reaches the silken rope that hangs down from the sky.
He has stripped himself of his crown and robes; he has clutched the silken cord;
He has swung him down without a sound, soÂ’s not to wake the Lord.
And down he winds through the perfumed air, down through the marshmallow clouds,
And he hangs for a while oÂ’er the rooftops of earth, lookinÂ’ down at the scurrying crowds.
Then down through a manhole still clutching the rope, to a stench that he knows quite well.
“Neath the sewers of the street, till he feels his feet touch the shit-mucked shores of Hell.
He has scaled the crusted, rusted gates, he has thrown a bone to the Hounds.
He has floated the putrid river Styx, still down and further down.
Down past the gluttons, the dealers and pimps, down past the murdererÂ’s cage,
Down past the rock stars searching in vain for their names on the Cashbox page.
Down past the door of the Merchants of War, past the PuritanÂ’s slop- filled bin.
Past the BigotÂ’s hive, till at last he arrives, at the pit marked BLAMELESS SINS.
He has found the vat where his momma boils; he has lifted her gently from the deep.
He has found the grate where his little girl burns;
he has raised her and soothed her and rocked her to sleep.
he has found the pit where his sweetheart sleeps; he has spit on the fire where she lay.
He has cursed her as a whore of Hell; he has cursed and turned away.
“From this day”, says Billy, “I place my faith only in mother and child,
And never again will I look for love in a bitch’s cum-stained smile.”
Then up, back up the rope he climbs, up through the sufferinÂ’ swarms,
Past the clutching hands and the pitiful screams with his two precious loves in his arms.
Just one more pull — just one more pull — then free forever from Hell,
Just one more pull then — “Hello, Billy!” — and there stands the Devil himself!
And now he wears his crimson robes and his horns are buttered bright,
And blood oozes through his white-linen gloves and his skin glows red in the night.
And his tail coils tight like an oily snake and the Hell-fires flash from his eyes,
On those craggy rocks, he stands and blocks the way to paradise.
“Well, what have we here”, the Devil says, “in my domain of sin?
In all my years as Prince of the Dark, itÂ’s the first case of somebody breakinÂ’ in.
And of all the daredevil darinÂ’ dudes, well, who should the hero be?
But my old friend Billy Markham — who once made a punk out of me.
I heard you was in Heaven, Billy, fuckinÂ’ angels all day long,
What’s a matter — wouldn’t that heavenly choir sing none of your raunchy songs?
Or maybe itÂ’s the thought of the loves you sold and you couldnÂ’t live with the shame.
Or maybe, like every other loser, you just can’t stay ‘way from the game.
You write your songs about standinÂ’ strong, you sing about beinÂ’ free,
But like a pussy-whipped fool who keeps on bitchinÂ’ Â’bout his lover, you keep bitchinÂ’ but cominÂ’ back to me.
You made me the laughingstock of Hell and the whole world laughed with you,
Now here you come crashinÂ’ my party again; now tell me, just whoÂ’s devilinÂ’ who?
Now, I didnÂ’t invite you down here, Bill, and nobody twisted your arm,
But youÂ’re back down here on my turf now, down here where itÂ’s cozy and warm.
So no more dice and no more games and no more jive stories to tell,
Just the Devil and a man with some souls in his hand hangin’ ‘tween Heaven and Hell.
But what is this?” the Devil says. “Only two souls you’ve set free?
You seem to forgot and left one behind; now, who could that one be?
Could it be your own true love, the one with the angelÂ’s smile?
The one you curse with each bitter breath Â’cause she played with the Devil awhile?
You call yourself free?” the Devil laughs. “Why, you prudish, uptight schmuck,
YouÂ’d leave your sweet love burn in Hell for one harmless little suck.
What would you rather she had done, leaped in the boiling manure . . .
SoÂ’s you could keep your fantasy of someone sweet and pure?
She saved her ass — and so would you — but still you curse her name.
Shit, you’d suck a million dicks to escape one childbirth pain.”
“Hey, it’s easy to talk to savin’ ass”, says Billy, “forgiveness is easy to say,
But when the shame burns worse than Hades’ fires — how do you talk that away?”
“Shame?” laughs the Devil. “She’s only a woman — she did what she had to do,
And right or wrong, she needs no curse from the hypocrite lame like you. . .
She shall rule with me in this Kingdom of Flame, she shall sit next to me on my throne,
While you live with the truth — that the Devil’s heart has more pity than your own.”
“Hey, wait a minute”, say Billy Markham. “I can’t believe what you just said,
You givinÂ’ me this whole philosophy shit just Â’cause you like the way she gave you head.
Why, you poor closet romantic, that chick was suckinÂ’ for her life.
Just wait see what kinda head you get after you make her your wife.”
“In Hell”, shouts the Devil, “that’s blasphemy! I should burn you to dust where you stand,
But the venom youÂ’re carryinÂ’ in your heart, thatÂ’s torture enough for any man.
So get your ass up that silken rope, climb back to your promised land,
And hold your illusions of momma and daughter tight in your sweatinÂ’ hand.
But youÂ’ll see that theyÂ’re just bitches like she, and youÂ’ll scream when you find itÂ’s true,
But stay up there and scream to God — Hell’s gates are closed to you.”
And Billy Markham, clutching his loves, climbs upward toward the skies,
And is it the sharp night wind that brings the tears to BillyÂ’s eyes?
Or is it the swirling sulphur smoke or the bright glare of the sun?
Or is it the sound of the wedding feast that the demons below have begun?
As the Devil, he sits with his betrothed and they pledge their love in the steam,
While halfway up the silken cord, Billy Markham screams!
Billy MarkhamÂ’s WeddingThe trumpets of Hell have sounded the word like a screeching clarion call.
The trumpets of Hell have sounded the word and the word has been heard by all.
The trumpets of Hell have sounded the word and it reaches the heavenly skies,
Come angels, come demons, come half-breeds, too, the Devil is taking a bride.
And out of the Pearly Gates they come in a file two by two,
For when the Devil takes a bride, thereÂ’s none that dares refuse.
And Jesus himself, he leads the way down through the starless night,
With Virgin Mary at his left side and Joseph on his right.
And then comes Adam and then comes Eve and saints move close behind
And all the gentle and all the good, in an endless column they wind.
Down, down to the pits of Hell, down from the heavens they sift
Like fallen stars to a blood-red sea, each bearing the Devil a gift.
The strong and the brave, the halt and the lame, the deaf and the blind and the dumb,
And last of all comes Billy Markham, cursing the night as he comes.
HellÂ’s halls are decked with ribbons of red, the feast has been prepared,
And Devil and bride sit side by side in skull-and-crossbone chairs,
And the Devil grins as his guests file in, for he is master now,
And one by one they enter his realm — and one by one they bow,
And the Devil whispers, “Thank the Lord,” and swells his chest with pride
As they mouth their blessings and place their gifts at the feet of the DevilÂ’s bride.
Lucrezia Borgia has made the punch of strychnine, wine and gin,
And Judas has set the supper table on hallowed, bloody linen.
The feast is a human barbecue and the sauce is beriberi
Flavored with gore from the burning hordes and cooked by Typhoid Mary.
And everyone drinks of the bubblinÂ’ brew and off come the masks of virtue and sin,
And the Devil beams proud on the well-mixed crowd and cries, “Let the revels begin!”
And the walls that separate Heaven and Hell crack and crumble away,
And the Devil laughs and waves his tail and HellÂ’s band begins to play.
There is Nero, madly fiddlinÂ’ his fiddle and Gabriel on horn,
And the Black Bitch of Buchenwald beating her drum, and Arthur Rank banginÂ’ his gong,
And Marie Laveau, she plays her bones and Yorick, he plays his,
And Hank plays guitar with three strings broke, and thatÂ’s what Hell really is.
And Janis and Elvis and Jimi and Cass, theyÂ’re up there singinÂ’ the blues,
And Adolf Hitler and Joan of Arc start doinÂ’ the boogaloo.
Then Carry nation, she starts to strip and everyone applauds,
Except Lady Macbeth, whoÂ’s givinÂ’ some head to Leonardo da Vinci and Santa Claus.
And the Marquis de Sade does a promenade, laughing and cracking his whips,
And Marilyn Monroe does a coochie show and Eve starts shaking her hips.
And Sarah Bernhardt and Jessie James, theyÂ’re taking dirty photos,
While out in the foyer, Richard the Third is comparing his hump with QuasimodoÂ’s.
And bare-ass naked on the balustrade sits Edgar Allan Poe
Posing for a two-dollar caricature by Michelangelo.
And Gypsy Rose Lee jumps on Francis Scott Key, and does a quick trick with her fan,
While Ivan the TerribleÂ’s trying to get into Virgin MaryÂ’s pants.
Henry the Eighth, he screams, “More food, more music, more wine, more wives,”
While Lizzie Borden and Jack the Ripper, theyÂ’re out on the terrace comparing knives.
Lenny Bruce, he moons the crowd while swinging from the ceiling,
And Jesus and Judas have one more drink just to show thereÂ’s no hard feelings.
Then Catherine the Great, sheÂ’s givinÂ’ her number to the horse of Paul Revere,
While Don JuanÂ’s whisperinÂ’ love and lust into Helen KellerÂ’s ear.
And General Grant, heÂ’s playing backgammon in the corner with Robert E. Lee,
While Freud and Rasputin are arguing pussy with Attila the Hun and Socrates.
And John Wilkes Booth, heÂ’s havinÂ’ a toot, and J. Edgar HooverÂ’s in drag,
While Amelia Earhart is talkinÂ’ to Lindbergh, Â’bout splittinÂ’ a five-cent bag,
And Mary Baker EddyÂ’s drunk and tellinÂ’ dirty jokes,
And Fatty Arbuckle’s shoutin’, “Hey, anybody got another coke?”
And Alice Toklas and Gertrude Stein are gigglinÂ’ behind the door,
While the Daughters of Lot are yellin’, “Hey, Pop, let’s do just once more.”
And Florence NightingaleÂ’s offerinÂ’ a beer to the Man in the Iron Mask,
While PlatoÂ’s shovinÂ’ cashew nuts up Marco PoloÂ’s ass,
And Billy Sunday and Mary Magdalene announce theyÂ’re goinÂ’ steady,
And Abel and Cain form a daisy chain with Jeanette MacDonald and Nelson Eddy.
Then Doctor Faust snorts too much coke and punches out Errol Flynn
Over some 13-year-old girl that theyÂ’re both interested in.
And NeroÂ’s laughinÂ’ as he sets fire to Mata HariÂ’s hair,
While Oscar Wilde says to Billy the Kid, “Hey, Kid, let me show you round upstairs.”
And the Devil, he drinks his boiling blood and glances side to side,
From the eyes of Billy Markham to the eyes of his own sweet bride.
Then the music comes to a screechinÂ’ halt and the revelers freeze where they stand
As Billy Markham approaches the throne and says, “May I have this dance?”
“Can this be Billy Markham”, sneers the Devil, “who loves only the chaste and the pure?
No, Billy wouldnÂ’t bow and kiss the hand of a woman he once called whore.
But whoever this poor, lonely wretch may be, it is my wedding whim,
That no man be refused this day — step down, darlin’, and dance with him.”
The Devil grins and waves his hand, the music starts gentle and warm,
As the lady nervously steps from her throne into Billy MarkhamÂ’s arms.
And the guests all snicker and snigger and wait, and they watch the dancersÂ’ eyes,
As round and round the floor they swirl ‘tween Hell and paradise.
“Oh, baby doll”, whispers Billy Markham, “I have done you an awful wrong,
And to show how rotten low I feel, I even wrote about it in a song.
I never should’ve called you a scuzzy whore — I never should’ve spit on your bed,
And I never shouldÂ’ve left you to burn here in Hell just Â’cause you give the Devil some head.
But if thereÂ’s any hellish and heavenly way that I can make it right,
If it costs my balls, over Hades’ walls, I’ll get you away tonight.”
And the lady smiles a wanton smile, as round and round the room they swing.
And she whispers low in Billy’s ear. . . “There is one little thing. . .”
Now the hall is empty, the guests are gone, and there on the rusted throne,
Hand in hand in golden bands, the Devil and bride sit alone.
And the Devil stretches and yawns and grins, “It has been quite a day.
Now I guess it’s time to seal our love in the usual mortal way.”
And the Devil strips off his crimson cloak, and he casts his pitchfork aside,
And he frees his oily two-pronged tail, and waits to take his bride.
And his true love lifts her wedding dress up over her angelÂ’s head
And hand in hand they make their way to the DevilÂ’s firery bed.
And her upturned breasts glow warm in the fire
And her legs are shapely and slim
And for the very first time since time began, the Devil feels passion in him.
“Now for the moment of truth”, he whispers. “My love, my queen, my choice.”
“I love you, too, motherfucker”, she laughs — in Billy Markham’s voice.
And the Devil leaps up and howls so loud that the fires of Hell blow cold.
“Ain’t no big deal”, says Billy’s voice. “While we was dancing, we swapped souls.
Now sheÂ’s up in Heaven singinÂ’ my songs and wearinÂ’ my body, too,
Safe forever in the arms of the Lord, while I’m down here in the arms of you.”
“Why, you crawlin’ crud”, the Devil cries, “I’ll teach you to fuck with my brain.
I’ll give you a child who weighs ninety-five pounds, you talk about screamin’ pain!”
“Hold on”, says Billy Markham, “I will be your wife only in name –
You come near me with that double-pronged dick and I’ll rip it right off your frame.”
“Not so loud”, the Devil whispers. “If Hell learns what’s been done,
TheyÂ’ll laugh me off this golden throne and damn me to kingdom come.
And you — you’ve given me my true love’s body with a hustler’s soul inside.
You know more of torture than I’ve ever dreamed — you’re fit to be my bride.”
“Well, don’t take it so hard”, Billy Markham says. “You know things could be lots worse.
Havin’ her soul in my body — now, that would be a curse.
But you and me, we got lots in common, we both like to shoot the shit,
And we both like to joke and we both like to smoke and we both like to gamble a bit,
And that could be the makinÂ’s for a happy marriage, and since neither of us ever gonna die,
Well, we might as well start the honeymoon — you wanna cut the cards or should I?”
Now, the wedding night is a hundred years past and their garments have rotted to rags.
But face to face they sit in the flames, dealing five-card stud and one-eyed jacks.
And sometimes they play pinochle, sometimes they play gin,
And sometimes the Devil rakes in the pots, and sometimes the lady wins,
And sometimes they just sit and reminisce of the night when they first were wed.
From dawn to dawn the game goes on. . .They never go to bed.
From
Playboy Magazine, January, 1979
Does this at all relate to the mind of an addict?
More Adult Poetry From Shel Silverstein (click here)
