He handed his soul within a bowl
Runny, red and ragged
The soul didn't look that pretty, either
It tried to contort itself
In a thousand different directions
It tried to flee
But a quick pinch and a twist
Conveyed that he was pissed
Keeping that soul in line
Until he offered it up
Like a ceremonial headdress
Madregal devoured it in one gulp
Wiped a bloody vittle
From the corner of her mouth
Using the edge of a virgin white shirtsleeve
She grimaced as it slithered its way
Down her gullet and she
Turned away from him,
Asking for a Seven-Up to
Wash down the bitter
Aftertaste
