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When I sold my soul to the devil
I could taste my ideals
passing into fruitation
like splinters from a bomb in a wooden barn
placed abjectively
a full stop mid-sentence
in the roof of my mouth.

When I sold my soul to the devil
I didn't know that my existence
would become the running foundation
on the cheeks of a crying clown
a continuous 'in' joke
and I am the subject line
not part of the collective.

When I sold my soul to the devil
I thought that I could take this spheric Earth
and force it into a triangular hole
molding as or like into doing words
and it was all a dream into acceptable curtain calls.

When I sold my soul to the devil
it didn't occur to me
that in my greed
I would end up alone
and Shakespeare would be more popular.