Every word of this is true
or so I'm led to believe.
A poetry show,
one cold winters eve.
The words were flowing well,
The drink helped. But that wasn't a hard sell.
A buzz filled the hall
like insects wanting to join the thrall.
The host was making the guests feel inspired
like inside them they had burning, raging fires
and the words began to pop.
Twisting from lips, they wouldn't stop.
They bounced around the room, into ears,
these words, trapped away for years.
Finally freed.
Then something not normally seen in this poetry game,
the flow of words started to erupt into open flame.
Seems by twisting words a little too well,
someone had accidentally
cast some mystic spell,
A direct line call to the gates of hell
and the Devil appeared, a bit dishevelled
and confused.
He was at that moment
about to watch some TV.
His greatest creation.
Love Island.
Well not one to turn down a free drink
and some entertainment,
the devil pulled up chair.
Which burned away instantly,
So he stood listening intently.
He found the words flow through him,
a tear boiling in his fiery eyes,
a laugh roared from his scorched throat
and in that moment, he swore
never to search for fiddlers again.
Poetry was may more hardcore.
It is said, that on poetry nights
if you investigate the spaces
just out of the light.
You may see his red fingers clicking,
hear the fiery laughter ringing.
So let your words out,
but be in no doubt
that sometimes the devil is lurking about.
Thanks for reading
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