Pub Tales of the Damned

In a crypt, beneath a cobbled street, a flickering gaslight's yellow glow,

The Reaper grim and Imp in heat, downing pints of spectral grog.

"Just finished Harold, nasty chap," the Reaper sighed, adjusting his hood,

"Took him mid-sentence, pint in lap, choked on a boney grub quite good."

The Devil chuckled, horns a-gleam, "Foolish mortals, always choke!

Mine took a tumble off a beam, chasing tail, a right old bloke!"

They clinked their glasses, bony hand against a hoof, a gruesome toast,

"To mortal folly in this land, a never-ending, spectral coast!"

The Reaper chuckled, deep and dry, "Had one chap try a bribe, you see,

Offered his soul, a tear in his eye, for another slice of pie!"

The Devil snorted, flames alight, "They think they're slick, that mournful lot!

Mine tried a fiddle, day and night, but ended up in a steaming pot!"

They swapped more tales, of souls deceived, of pacts and deals gone rather wrong,

The barkeep, skull appropriately cleaved, just shuffled mugs their way all night long.

As dawn approached, a pale light crept, casting long shadows on the wall,

The Reaper nudged his glass and swept, "Another night, another fall."

The Devil raised a glass, a fiery wink, "Till next time, friend, and all that jazz,

More souls to singe, more fools to sink, in this delightful, spectral pub, eh?"