Sold my soul to the devil in New York City.
He asked me if I could spare some change.
I smiled sincerely and said, “Of course.
But there are things about me you should know.
I was born in a subway tunnel
underneath Hell’s Kitchen.
Roaring trains masked my cries.
A bearded homeless man hummed a song.
My mother held me tight.”
The devil looked up and wanted to know
what the meaning of my story was.
I was quite honest and resolute.
I looked him in his eyes.
“I’ve forgotten it now,” I said aloud,
“but I’d give anything to hear it again.”
And before I knew it,
he pursed his lips
and began to whistle that tune.
