Down at the Infernal Arms

The flickering gaslight cast an eerie hue,

On two unlikely chums, a devil and a dude.

Not just any dude, mind you, a fellow draped in black,

The Grim Reaper, downing pints, with nary a soul on his back.

"Well, Deathy," chuckled the Devil, horns glinting with glee,

"Been busy lately? More souls flocking down to me?"

Grim Reaper chuckled, a hollow, rattling sound,

"Business is boomin', souls pile up by the pound!"

"Had a politician choke on a campaign lie," Grim Reaper said,

"Sent a social media influencer narcissism-induced dread."

"Ooh, classic!" the Devil roared, his tail swished with delight,

"Anything truly outlandish to spice up the night?"

"Met a mime," Grim Reaper sighed, "couldn't even plead his case,

Just stood there silently, a most awkward embrace."

The Devil snorted, nearly spewing his infernal brew,

"A silent mime? Now that's a soul I wouldn't mind screwing!"

Grim Reaper raised an eyebrow, "Easy there, my friend,

Leave some torment for the afterlife, let the torture transcend!"

They clinked their glasses, a morbid, echoing chime,

"To chaos and misery, a most unholy rhyme!"

"Speaking of chaos," the Devil leaned in, a shifty grin,

"I messed with a self-help guru, made him doubt his own chin!"

Grim Reaper cackled, a sound like wind through a crypt,

"Self-help gurus? Now those are souls I wouldn't mind snipped!"

The night wore on, their laughter echoing through the gloom,

Two masters of misfortune, sharing a pint in a pub's tomb.

A toast to misfortune, a wicked, dark delight,

The Devil and the Grim Reaper, best friends in the eternal night.