I Sold My Soul To The Devil And Now He Wants A Refund

I had been here before, a long time ago,
Where I knew he would appear again,
He said “I see you are ready to do some bargaining,
What will it be this time my friend?
I can grant you all the best things in life,
Money and clothes so fine,
A voice like a dove, fingers of gold,
If only your soul would be mine.”

And so a life I lead so amazing,
I could scarcely believe,
Knowing all the time what was awaiting me,
For what I had achieved.
When came the day of reckoning,
And down to the pit I would descend,
Waiting to suffer for all eternity,
The price I would pay in the end.

And the heat it was hot, and the people were mean,
And the days were full of torture and pain,
So I thought I’d go directly to Satan himself every day,
To bitterly complain.
I said, “How do you put up with this heat?”
I said “The people here really suck!”
I said “My soul is worth more than this!
This is no kind of deal, now I’m stuck!”

And the devil he tried to avoid me,
But I can be pretty persistent,
He said, “Look lady, a deals a deal.”
But I became very insistent.
Until one day steam came from his ears,
And his horns began to twitch,
And he called among the highest orders,
“Save me from this bitch!”

He said I could keep my money,
He said I could keep my fancy home,
He said I could keep the all the fineries,
If I’d just leave him alone.
And he looked up to the heavens and said,
“You want her? Come retrieve her!”
But I guess it was no small surprise,
They didn’t want me either.

And they even pointed to the fine print,
And said “The deals been done,
No refunds or exchanges after 30 days,
And it’s been 31.”
So there was only one thing left to do,
To stick me in a private suite,
Roomy and air conditioned,
Nothing short of heavenly.

And at my insistence, a sign on the door,
Of the digs where I would eternally dwell,
‘The devil’s finally met his match,
This bitch sure can raise some hell!”

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_writing_challenge/build-your-own/

Crossroads

They say he’d been here before, a long time ago,
But now with a new determination,
He was ready to do what he would have to do,
To become a blues guitar sensation.

And so he returned to Rosedale,
But now with fingers of gold,
And everyone swore it was a pact with the devil,
Bought in return for his soul.

But perhaps I am too cynical,
Of myths and fables I’d just as soon disregard,
But I’ll say he simply went off to his room,
And practiced really hard.

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_writing_challenge/build-your-own/

The Princess And The Pea-Brained

A prince, it seems, who was obsessed,
With finding himself a true princess,
And tests the girls he might be wedding,
By the discomforts of their bedding,
By singling out the chosen she,
Complaining of a single pea.

But I’m sure he’ll find there’s still one hitch,
The princess is a complete bitch!
For someone quite so finicky,
To be upset by a single pea,
Will soon pick the thing to be,
Unwanted in her bed is he.

Spotlight on the Rock and Roll Supermom: Marissa Bergen

It’s been a long time since anyone has wanted to interview me. I am so flattered that Marie of my Wild Surmise, my sistah from another mistah, took the time to publish this. Surely I am not worthy. Thank you Marie!

My Wild Surmise

I’m extremely fortunate to have a few loyal friends and supporters of my little blog, especially considering that I have no particular background or expertise in music, about which I am ostensibly writing. All I really have is a burning passion for music and a strange desire to spill my guts to the world, no matter how painfully humiliating that may be. But the same can’t be said for the queen of all my blog buddies, rocker chick extraordinaire, Marissa Bergen. I mean, she obviously has the burning passion thing and the spill her guts thing too, but she also actually has some experience in the music biz that doesn’t involve playing the flute in band and taking piano lessons from the beehived Mrs. Sullivan. But enough cheap, sneaky plugs for my blog, let’s talk to Marvelous Marissa…

1. Tell us the story of how you started your band, Sisters…

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Sam I Am

There is a boy named Sam,
No one seems to have a clue,
Whenever I mention him,
They just seem to ask “Who?”

And it is at that point,
A conclusion I must reach here,
That I find that he really has,
Not one distinguishing feature.

He might be racially ambiguous,
Or perhaps he is white,
Brown hair and eyes but the rest forgotten,
Once he leaves my sight.

He is neither short nor tall,
Neither fat nor very thin,
In fact the only characteristic,
That stands out about him,

Would be a certain title,
Sad that I must render,
But to say “You know, he’s the boy
That no one can remember.”

Wonder Twin Powers

Her and me, me and her,
Walked down the streets causing a stir,
Hot pants and Doc Martens, we were quite a sight,
With me on the left and her on the right.

And though our attitudes were nearly the same,
Perhaps they represented another part of the brain,
With fanciful visions her ideas gave birth,
To an extravagant world that I brought down to earth.

And perhaps we were witches, super heroes, rock stars,
Who slummed with lowlifes outside elegant bars,
Making up a youth so sentimental,
Of teenage years, to say the least, experimental.

And nothing could stop determination or fate,
As our Wonder Twin Powers would activate,
To make a plan somewhat diabolical,
Which rendered us no less than unstoppable.

And though our rock star dreams might be one in a million,
Perhaps we’d clone ourselves in our rock n’ roll children,
Who would take off where our story ends,
And themselves become the best of friends.

But something happened and today,
Although she lives only a few miles away,
The baggage piles up to mountains,
Making those few miles feel like thousands.

And even a phone call could make me see,
She’s not the girl she used to be,
Although perhaps a glimpse or glance is made,
The vision then does quickly fade.
But after all is said and done,
I sure do miss my Tweedledum.

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_writing_challenge/my-dear-watson/

Rainy Day Women #13 and 36

One look onto the world outdoors,
Assures me it not only rains but pours,
Which makes it an easy decision,
To spend the afternoon with the Rainy Day Women.

They’ll come in giggling and singing the tune,
Looking like wild women from the local saloon,
Then sexy, sultry they will slouch,
Their liquid forms adorn my couch.

They’ll giggle endlessly at Oprah,
Sing requiems for the stone cold sober,
Who may not understand our bliss,
For an outside world that does not exist.

Tell Dylan we will not forget,
His claims not to be an advocate,
But contemplate our best laid plans,
And assume he understands.

But tell Fogerty of an afternoon euphorious,
We’ve seen the rain and it is glorious.

 

4 A.M.

it’s 4 in the morning
It’s too late to care
So I guess the best thing about you
Is you’re here
Lookin’ at me
While I’m lookin’ at you
And deciding you really ain’t much
But you’ll do.

Gathered Rosebuds

His beautiful wife, the lines on her face,
The years of youth they seem to erase,
Yet he will never see her so crudely,
And only sees time to increase her beauty.

And it makes him so sad when she does appear,
To turn away from her reflection in the mirror,
And look longingly at her slit skirts before they are dismissed,
With fonder memories, a bittersweet reminisce.

And so to a flower shop he does enquire,
To send a bouquet from a secret admirer,
So that his wife may secretly gloat,
About who would send her such flowers but not a note.

And so he comes home and says to her “Pray,
Tell me what special things happened today!”
Only to see his wife’s mood was not lifted,
By these dozen roses so secretly gifted.

Ideas of an admirer for her may exist,
A notion the woman has quickly dismissed,
“An old woman like me just puts them in water,
For surely such beauty was meant for my daughter.”

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/secret-admirers/

Manifesto Of A Social Pariah With A Low Moral Barometer

It probably isn’t really best to,
Have someone like me write a manifesto,
And I actually think it is good to mention,
That such a writing challenge be brought to question.
Perhaps a ruse to have me taken away?
Who is this Ben Huberman anyway??
Maybe a member of the the Illuminati,
Who thinks my distaste of bacon qualifies me for the Communist Party.

But a thought so irresistible,
Makes me wonder if it should be permissible,
For could the whole world be waiting to see,
A version of life according to me?
And so I look deeply within,
But now can only wonder where to begin.

A blank canvas on which to paint a portrait,
That starts out with a sea of chocolate,
Flying cars and boatloads of riches,
An elimination of pet peeves and bitches.
Providing a foundation of a world that will be,
Filled with spa days and shopping sprees,
Eventually achieving the ultimate goal,
Sex and drugs and rock n’ roll,
Ruling the world as it was meant,
With Ozzy Osbourne for president.

But then I see that something’s wrong,
My manifesto’s been written all along,
180 pages of unabashed truth,
Called ‘Glorious Results of a Misspent Youth’.

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_writing_challenge/manifesto/