Satan called. She Wants Her Coffee Black
In the depths of night, when shadows crawl,
A phone rings out, an unholy call.
Trembling fingers lift the receiver high,
A voice like ash whispers from the other side.
"My coffee, dear, you know how I take it,
Black as sin, no cream to fake it.
Bring it to me at the crossroads bare,
Where lost souls wander in despair."
The line goes dead, but the air still burns,
As if all of Hell's fury churns.
Footsteps echo on the kitchen tile,
The brew drips slowly, all the while.
With shaking hands, the mug is filled,
Steam rises like spirits unkilled.
Out into darkness, the offering goes,
Where it ends, nobody knows.
At the crossroads, she waits in red,
Eyes are glowing like embers, long since dead.
"My coffee, black," she purrs with glee,
"And for payment? Your soul belongs to me."
A sip, a smile, a flash of fire,
The price of service is eternally dire.
Remember well, when night falls deep,
Satan's thirst is yours to keep.
