In a whirlwind of lead,
I fled inside my head,
imagined myself dead,
and met the devil.
His horns were pointy red;
"Your soul is mine," he said.
I wished I was in bed.
That’s on the level.
He’s the pencil dust devil,
a voice like Aaron Neville.
He whips his pointed tail.
I wish I was in jail.
Don’t wanna go to hell.
This isn’t show and tell.
I broke my pencil’s point.
I smoked another joint.
And now I’m drawing God.
He’s got a lovely bod.
I’m through with Beelzebub.
My pencil is a stub.