Some of us in this country had the good fortune to watch Marsh Dodanwela play Billy Markham in Shel Silverstein’s “The Devil and Billy Markham” several months ago, and if you were one of us that did, you may remember that final verse that goes like this:
“Then, arm in arm, Billy Markham and the Devil walk out through Linebaugh’s door,
Leavin’ Billy’s old beat-up guitar there on the floor.
And if you go into Linebaugh’s now, you can see it there today
Hangin’ from a nail on the wall of peelin’ gray
Billy Markham’s old guitar . . .
That nobody dares to play.”
And now to continue:
Until, that is, one stormy night a stranger walked right in
To Linebaugh’s, and he looked around his face being pretty grim.
He checked out Red – still strummin his guitar, with nary a word to say,
Then he looks at Eddie, who gets a beer and turns to look away.
Vince thinks he’s seen it all before, so he passes once again,
And Ronnie with his snuff queens ain’t feelin any pain.
The stranger takes another look, then see’s Billy’s guitar
Hanging on the wall so lonely as no one dared to play.
The stranger turned to Linebaugh and in a silky voice he said
“Hey man, is this that same guitar that Billy Markham played?”
They all looked up to check him out, this stranger with a face
So familiar it seemed to them, although they could not place
Where they had seen it before,
Could it have been here, so long ago,
When the Devil made his play
With spotless dice and another voice,
And Billy made his day?
Or had Billy come to claim his place,
His grace, his voice, his previous face?
They could not tell and yet they stared
At the stranger at the bar.
And Linebaugh, looking up at last
Said to the stranger with a laugh.
“Yeah man that’s Billy Markham’s ol guitar”
The stranger got himself a drink and lit himself a joint,
Inhaling deep he looked around and then he made his point.
He walked up to that ol guitar and gently tuned its strings,
He handled it with tender care and almost made it sing,
And then he struck some bluesey chords and got into a song
That Billy Markham played a lot, and they hadn’t heard so long.
His voice was not like Billy’s rasp, it rang out smooth and clear
“Not so unlike that Devil’s tone”, thought Linebaugh as he got himself a beer.
The stranger done, he looked around to see the folk were staring
At something strange that happened while he was up there playing.
And sure enough, the stranger thought, as he looked in Linebaugh’s mirror,
His face was changing, his guitar playing and his memories made him shiver.
Another time, another place, another game with spotless dice,
Another player steeped in vice, had tricked him into playing.
And then it all came back to him
What had happened in the interim….
Down there in Hell after some time old Billy had enough
Of stupid games of roll them dice and other Devil stuff,
And so he hit upon a plan to get away from there.
He had to use the same old dice to satisfy the Devil’s vice
And so he did prepare.
He got some bones from haggard crones and carved up cubes – a pair.
He cut them out and shaped them up and polished them with care
Until they looked just like the ones the Devil would entice
A fool like him, and cheat his way to win with spotless dice.
He took his time between the works the Devil made him do,
Concealed the dice where the sun don’t shine and out the Devil’s view.
And then, when all alone at last, he painted dots where there were none
On both cubes – just like the Devil’s – and put it back when he was done.
Much later, when the Devil checked to see if all was well,
He spotted Billy working hard to stoke the fires of Hell.
“Hey Billy Markham”, the Devil yelled, “get yo ass up here.
Come on up and play my game and if you win I’ll sever
The chains that bind you – no strings attached – and you’ll leave Hell forever”.
Billy smiled, his chance had come – he had waited for this time
To get right back to Linebaugh’s bar and get his ass in line
To hang out with them pimps and whores, his gambling and his other woes,
To breathe fresh air, play his guitar, sing the blues, get stoned once more.
And so he got his ass in gear and climbed out of the pit
That he was in for all the sins that he did once commit.
The Devil laughed, he cracked right up to think that all this while
Billy never tired of being made a fool by his satanic majesty’s guile.
“Gimme them dice, I’ll play the game” said Billy thinking fast
He knew he had the other pair he’d hidden up his ass.
The Devil laughed, his evil leer made Billy think that never
Would he be more determined to pull this off and and leave this dump for ever.
So he took the Devil’s dice and thinking fast he made a pass behind his fanny
And switched his dice with painted spots with the Devil’s own that hadn’t any.
He shook em up, blew in his fists and watched the Devil leer
As he chanted “Come on sweethearts, do your thing and get me outta here”.
He rolled the dice across the floor of the Devil’s sanctum scene
They rolled until they hit the wall and ended up – “thirteen”
Screamed Billy – holding up the dice so they’d be seen.
“You cheated me” the Devil yelled “these fucking dice have spots,
There’s sevens on one when mine had none
And only sixes on the other one”.
“Sorry” said Billy with a smile, “they’re the only dice I’ve got”.
Well, the Devil had to keep his word and set old Billy free
And so he took him by his hand and walked him to the edge
Of Hell, and pointed out for him to see
The fringes of eternity.
He shook his hand and with a grin
Said, “Billy, you deserve to win
You played my game
And did your thing
And then you played my game to win
Your freedom. So go and get back to your bar
And sing the blues and play guitar
And hang out with them pimps and whores,
Your gambling and your other woes,
Go breathe fresh air, get stoned once more”
And then, without so much as a “fare thee well”,
Bill was kicked out from the gates of Hell.
So now he’s back in Linebaugh’s bar.
He’ll sing the blues and play guitar
And hang out with them pimps and whores,
His gambling and his other woes
And breathe fresh air, get stoned as well,
Having left the Devil in his fires of Hell.
Ephemeral Ruminations 
10 comments
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July 28, 2008 at 5:49 am
kalusudda
Wish I had your ability to write! (Hope Billy does not get too stoned.)
July 30, 2008 at 12:54 am
javajones
Kalu – thanks. Billy’s being cool after that hellish experience!
July 30, 2008 at 3:10 pm
Dirty Beaches « Kalusudda Comments
[…] Cerno is busy with Russians and he almost got me . Java Jones makes me feel ashamed with my command of languages, any that I know. I wonder if he got his Java from a coffeehouse in […]
July 31, 2008 at 2:34 am
gutterflower
Ohhhh… Nice one.
I really enjoyed ‘The devil and Billy Markham’. I can almost picture Marsh saying these lines.
July 31, 2008 at 4:45 am
javajones
Gutterflower – Gracias
October 2, 2008 at 4:26 pm
John Smithy
no, no, no, the rest of it really goes like this………..
Billy Markham and the Fly
Billy Markham slowly turns on a white-hot steel spit,
And his skin, it crackles like roasting pig, and his flesh is seared and
split,
And sulphur fills his nostrils and he’s fed on slime and mud,
By a hairy imp with a pointed stick who bastes him in spider’s blood.
And his eyeballs boil up inside his skull and his throat’s too charred
to scream,
So he sleeps the sleep of the burning dead and he dreams unspeakable
dreams.
[markham20.jpg]
Then in walks the Devil in a big yellow hat as Bill hears the
Hell gates clangin’
And the Devil wipes off his bloody hands and says, “Hey, Bill,
how’re they hanging?
I’m sorry we couldn’t give you a pit with a view, but right
now this’ the best we got,
But as soon as we’re done with Attila the Hun, we’ll move you
right into his spot.
Have you met your neighbors, have you heard ’em scream? Do
they keep you awake in the fire?
Hey, a little more brimstone for number nine — and stoke up
the heat a bit higher.
Ah, you just can’t get good help these days, and there ain’t
much profit in Hell.
No — turn that adulteress upside down — do I have to do
everything myself?
I tell you, Bill, it’s a full-time job, tending these white-
hot coals,
So damn busy with paperwork, I hardly got time for collecting
new souls.
Which brings me to the subject of my little visit. Now, you’re one of
them natural-born gamblin’ men,
And I’ll bet you’d give most anything just to get them dice in your
hands again.
So instead of swimming in this muck and slime and burnin’ crisp as toast
. . .
I’ll trade you one roll of the dice for the soul of the one who loves
you most.”
“Trade the soul of the one who loves me most? Not a chance in
Hell I will!”
“Spoken like a hero,” the Devil says. “Hey, a little more fire for
Bill.”
“You can burn me, roast me or bake me,” says Billy. “Go have
your fiendish fun.
A coward dies a thousand times — a brave man checks out
once.”
“Hey, Billy, that’s poetic,” the Devil says, “but life ain’t like no
rhyme,
And I know ways to make a brave man die a million times.”
“Then do it, motherfucker!” Billy Markham screams. “But I
won’t trade love away.”
“That’s what they all say,” the Devil laughs, “but when I turn up the
fire, they play.”
And the flame burns white and Bill’s flesh burns black and he
smells his roasting stink,
And the Hell rats nibbble upon his nose . . . and Billy begins
to think.
He thinks of his childhood sweetheart who loved him through
his crazy days . . .
He thinks of his gray-haired mamma, Hell, she’s gettin’ old
anyway.
He thinks of his baby daughter — he wrote her a card last
fall . . .
Then the Devil does somethin’ even I won’t describe . . . and
Billy screams, “Take ’em all!”
And — Zap! — again he’s back at Linebaugh’s, kneeling on that same old
floor,
And across from him the Devil kneels, ready to play once more.
And Bill gently feels the Linebaugh’s tile littered with git
and grime
And he sees his friends in the booths all around as they chew
their nails and rhyme their rhymes.
And he hears the jukebox blaring loud, and smells the perfume
and the piss,
And he breathes in deep of the smoke-filled air, and he
thinks, “How sweet it is.”
“Well, are you ready to shoot some craps?” he hears the Devil cry,
“Or you gonna sit all night and stroke that floor like you stroke a
young girl’s thigh?”
And as Billy takes the dice, he knows that if he wins,
Then Hades will have been a dream, and his soul will be his
again.
“I guess my point is still thirteen?” Billy Markham asks.
“The point’s the same,” the Devil sneers, “and the stakes are still your
ass.”
“Well, one never knows,” Billy Markham says, “when luck’s
gonna smile on a man,
And if a charcoal corpse from Hell can’t roll thirteen, then
who the Hell can?”
And Billy Markham shakes the dice and whispers, “Please, thirteen.”
And the dice roll out a six . . . and a six . . . and then, as if in a
dream . . .
A buzzing fly from a plate nearby, like a messenger sent from heaven,
Shits — right in the middle of one of them sixes — and turns it into a
seven.
“Thirteen!” yells Billy Markham. “I have beat the Devil’s
play.”
“The Hell you have,” the Devil says, and . . . whoosh. . . he blows that
speck away.
“Which goes to prove,” the Devil says, “that Hell’s too big to buck,
And when you’re gambling for your ass, don’t count on flyshit luck.”
“Well, that’s life,” sighs Billy Markham, “and it never lasts
for long,
Buy y’know that fly shittin’ on that die would have made one
Hell of a song.”
[markham21.jpg]
“You’re a songwriting fool,” the Devil laughs. “There ain’t no doubt
about it.
As soon as you go lose one damn game, you wanna write a song about it.
But there’s a whole lot more to life and death than the words and tunes
you give ’em.
And any fool can sing the blues — let’s see if you can live ’em.”
Then — Zap! — Billy wakes up back in Hell, turning on that
same steel spit,
And again his skin crackles like roasting pork, and his flesh
is seared and split,
And his mouth is filled with molten lead and his ass with red-
hot coals,
And next to him the Devil squats — and laughs — and wipes
his ass with Billy Markham’s soul.
And he hears the screams of his momma as she turns in the purple flame.
And he hears the cries of his baby girl as she pays the price of his
game.
He hears the voice of his own true love laugh like a child at play,
As she sucks the Devil’s brains out in her own sweet lovin’ way.
And buzzin’ ‘cross Bill’s burnin’ bones and landing on his starin’ eye
And nibblin’ on his roastin’ flesh
Is that grinnin’ Linebaugh’s fly.
Billy Markham’s Last Roll
“Good morning, Billy Markham, it’s time to rise and shine.”
The Devil’s words come grindin’ into Billy’s burnin’ mind.
And he opens up one bloodshot eye to that world of living death,
And he feels the Devil’s bony claw and he smells the Devil’s rotten
breath.
“Wake up, Sunshine!” the Devil laughs. “I’m giving you another turn.”
“I’m turning now,” Billy Markham growls. “Go away and let me
burn.”
“But you’re Gamblin’ Billy Markham,” says the Devil, “and you wouldn’t
let a chance go past.”
“Another chance to roll thirteen?” says Billy. “Hey, shove it up your
ass.
I’ve rolled your dice, I’ve rolled ’em twice. Now I hear my love ones
cry,
And before I play that game again, I’ll stay here in Hell and fry.”
“You sure are a grouch when you wake up,” says the Devil, “but
don’t take it out on me.
In the misty worlds of Heaven and Hell, Bill, everything’s
done in threes.”
“Well, you can take three kisses of my burning bum,” says Billy, layin’
back and closing his eyes,
“And I’ll piss on your shoe, if ever you come near me again with them
flyshit dice.”
“Dice? Dice?” says the Devil. “Who said dice? Anybody hear me
say dice?
Hey, imp, pour my buddy here a cool glass of water, and throw
in a nice big chunk of ice.”
“And since when,” says Billy, raisin’ up, “do you go around handing out
gifts,
Except pokes from your burning pitchfork or mouthfuls of boiling shit?”
“Well, it’s Christmas,” says the Devil, “and all of us down
here below,
We sort of celebrate in our own sweet way, and this year
you’re the star of the show.
Why, just last night I was up on earth and I seen that
lovers’ moon,
And I said to myself, ‘Hey, I bet old Billy could use a little
bit of poon.”
“Poon?” says Billy Markham. “Last thing I need is poon.
Talk about gettin’ my ashes hauled, Hell, I’ll be all ashes soon.”
“Damn, damn!” the Devil screams. “He’s been too long on the
fires.
I told you imps to fry him slow, now you gone and burned out
his desire.
You gotta leave ’em some hope, leave ’em some dreams, so they
know what Hell is for,
‘Cause when a man forgets how sweet love is, well, Hell ain’t
Hell no more.
So just to refresh your memory, Billy, we’re gonna send you back to
earth
And I’ll throw in a little Christmas blessin’ to remind you what life is
worth.
For exactly thirteen hours you can screw who you wanna screw
And there ain’t no creature on God’s green earth who’s gonna say no to
you.
While me and all these burning souls and all my imps and fiends,
We’re gonna sit down here and watch you on that big twenty-four-inch
color screen.
And we’ll see each hump you’re humping, and we’ll hear each grunt you
groan,
And we’ll laugh at the look upon your face when it’s time to come back
home.”
“Well, you’re much too kind,” Billy Markham says. “And you
treat me much too well.
You gonna give me somethin’ just to take it back — you sure
know how to run a Hell.
Well, a game is a game,” Billy Markham says, risin’ off his
bed of coals.
“But what if one won’t ball me, what if one I want says no?”
“No?” says the Devil. “What if one says no? Ain’t nobody gonna say no.
Nobody quits or calls in sick when the Devil calls the show.
Not man nor woman nor beast!” screams the Devil, “and no laters or
maybes or buts,
And before one soul says no to you, I’ll see these Hell gates rust.
But if anyone refuses you, I say, anyone you name,
Then you’ll be free to stay on earth.
Now get out and play the game!”
[markham19.jpg]
Then a flash of light and a thunderclap and Billy’s back on
earth once more
And the asphalt sings beneath his feet as he weaves toward
Music Row.
First he stops at the Exit Inn to seduce the blonde on the
door,
Then the RCA receptionist he takes on the office floor.
He nails the waitress down at Macks, the one with the pear-
shaped breasts,
And four of the girls from B.M.I. right on Frances Preston’s
desk.
He screws his way from M.C.A. to Vanderbilt’s ivy walls.
And he pokes everything that giggles or sings or whimpers or
wiggles or crawls.
First Debbie, then Polly, then Dotty, then Dolly then Jeannie,
and Jessie, and Jan,
Then Marshall and Sal and that redheaded gal who takes the
tickets at Opryland.
Then Hazel and Carla and an ex-wife of Harlan’s then Melva and
Marge and Marie,
And three fat Gospel singers who all came together in perfect
three-part harmony.
And Brenda and Sammy and Sharon and Sandy, Loretta and Buffy
and Mae.
And Terri and Lynne at the Holiday Inn and Captain Midnight’s
fiancée.
Then Sherry and Rita, Diane and Anita, Olivia, Emmy and Jean,
And Donna and Kay down at Elliston Place — right there in the
pinto beans.
He crashes a session in Studio B, where he humps both Janet
and June
On John Gimble’s fiddle, right in the middle of a Porter
Wagoner tune.
From Connie to Bonnie to Caroline, to Tracy, to Stacy, to Jo,
He gives ’em a glance and they drop their pants and nobody
dares say no.
He is humpin’ the Queen of country music, when he hears the Devil moan.
“Make it sweet, Billy Markham, but make it short, you’ve got just thirty
seconds to go.
And all of us here, we’re applauding your show and we’d say you done
right well,
And we just can’t wait to hear you moan when you’re fuckless forever in
Hell.”
“Hold on!” says Billy with one last thrust. “If I got thirty
seconds mo’,
Then I got the right to one last hump before it’s time to go.”
“Well, make your choice,” the Devil says, “and you’d better be quick and
strong,
And make it a come to remember, Bill — it’s gotta last you eternity
long.”
“So who will it be, Billy Markham?” they scream. “Who’s gonna be the
one?
Starlet or harlot or housewife or hippie or grandma or shoolgirl or nun?
Or fresh-scented virgin or dope-smoking groupie or sweet ever-smilin’
stew?”
And Billy Markham, he stops. . .and he squints at the Devil. .
.and says. . .”Sucker. . .I’ll take you.”
“Foul!” cries the Devil. “Foul, no fair! The rules don’t hold for me.”
“You said man or woman or beast,” says Bill, “and I guess
you’re all of the three.”
And a roar goes up from the demons of Hell and it shakes the earth
across,
And the imps all squeal and the demons scream, “He’s gonna fuck the
boss!”
“Why, you filthy scum,” the Devil snarls, blushing a fiery
red,
“I give you a chance to live again and you bust me in front of
my friends.”
“Hey, play or pay,” Billy Markham says. “So set me free at last,
Or raise your tail and hear all Hell wail when I bugger your devilish
ass.”
[markham22.jpg]
“You got me,” spits the Devil. “Go on and stay on your
precious earth,
And plod along and plug your songs, but carry this life-long
curse.
You shall lust for a million women, and not one’s gonna come
your way,
And you shall write ten million songs and not one’s ever gonna
get played.
And your momma and daughter and your own true love, they gonna
stay down here with me,
And you’ll carry the guilt like a movable Hell, wherever the
Hell you be.”
“Ah, well,” says Billy Markham, “they never were mine to lose,
No family, no pussy and no records, Hell, I’m used to them kind of
dues.”
So back on the streets goes Billy again, eatin’ them
Linebaugh’s beans,
Pickin’ his songs while nobody listens and tellin’ his story
that no one believes.
And he gets no women and he gets no hits, but he says just
what he thinks.
Hey, buy him a round. . .it won’t cost much . . .ice water’s
all he drinks.
But notice the burns upon his wrist as he raises his tremblin’
glass,
While he tells how the Devil once burned his soul —
While he singed the Devil’s ass.
Billy, Scuzzy, and God
It’s the Nashville Country Corner, all the low are getting high.
And Billy tells his tale again to anyone who’ll buy.
With waving arms and rolling eyes, he screams to the drunken throng,
“I’ve whipped the Devil and lived through Hell, now who’s gonna sing my
song?”
Then from the shadows comes an oily voice, “Hey, kid, I like
your moves.”
And out of the back slides a little wizened cat with brown-and
-white perforated wing-tip shoes.
“Sleezo’s the name,” the little man says, “but I’m Scuzzy to
my friends.
And I think I got a little business proposition you just might
be interested in.”
“Scuzzy Sleezo hisself,” Billy Markham says. “Man, you’re a legend in
these woods.
You never cut the Devil down, but you done damn near as good.
Why, since I been old enough to jack, I been hearin’ your greasy name.
It’s an honor to meet an all-star Scuzz. Just where you settin’ up your
game?”
[markham23.jpg]
“No more games for me,” says Scuzzy. “I’m too old and too slow for the
pace,
So I’m the world’s greatest hustler’s agent now and, Billy, I been
studyin’ your case.
I seen your first match with the Devil,” says Scuzz, “it was a
Volkswagen/Mack truck collision,
And your second shot, well, you showed me a lot, but you got burned by a
hometown decision.
And I says to myself, ‘He can go all the way, with the proper guidance,
of course.
He’s got the heart, and with a few more smarts, he’d be an irresistible
force.’
Yeah, I can teach you the tricks and show you the shticks, just like a
hustler’s training camp.
And I’ll bring you on slow — then a prelim or so — then — Powee! — a
shot at the Champ.”
“The Champ?” says Billy Markham. “Now, who in God’s name is
that?”
“Why, God Himself,” says Scuzzy Sleezo. “You know anybody more champ
than that?”
“Hey, a match with God?” Billy Markham gasps. “And what would
be the purse?”
“Why, a place in heaven, of course,” says Scuzz, “‘stead of livin’ this
Nashville curse.
But I’ll drive you like a wagon, son, and I’ll sweat you like a Turk,
All for fifty percent of the take — now, shake, and let’s get to work.”
[storyend_dingbat.gif]
Now the scene shifts to the funky pool hall known as the Crystal Cue
And the time is three months later, and the smoke is thick and blue,
And the emerald cloth is stained with tears and blood and ketchup spots,
As a fat old man with a dirty white beard stands practicin’ three-
cushion shots.
“Hey, what are we doin’ here?” says Billy to Scuzz. “I been
taught and I been trained,
And I don’t need no more prelims, I am primed for the Big, Big
Game.”
“Well, son,” says the old man, sinkin’ the four, “why don’t you pick
yourself out a cue, and. . . .”
“Hey, Santa Claus,” Billy Markham snaps back, “wasn’t nobody
talkin’ to you.”
“Um. . .if you look close,” whispers Scuzzy to Bill, “you’ll see his cue
is a lightnin’ rod,
And he ain’t no Santa, and he ain’t Fat Daddy. . .you just showed your
ass to God.”
“Well, hey, excuse me, Lord,” says Bill, “I didn’t mean to be
uncool,
But it sure can shake a fellah’s faith to find God hustling
pool.”
“Well, where you expect to find me,” says God, “on a throne with cherubs
round?
Well, I do that five days and nights a week, and on the sixth night. .
.I get down.”
“And on the seventh night I suppose you rest?” says Billy
Markham with a grin.
“Never you mind about the seventh night,” says God. “Besides, that
lady’s just a friend.
Anyway, you didn’t come here just to drag my image down.”
“You’re right ’bout that, Lord,” Billy says. “I come to take
your crown.”
“Beg pardon, Lord,” says Scuzzy Sleezo, “I don’t mean no disrespect,
But when you’re dealing with my boy, don’t speak to him direct.
I’m his agent and consultant, Scuzzy Sleezo is the name,
Premier Promotional Artist’s Representative of the whole street-hustlin’
game.
Cardsharps, loan sharks, pimps, punks and car parks, I’ve handled the
best of the lot,
And my new boy here, he just whipped the Devil — now we’re lookin’ for
a title shot.”
“Beat the Devil, you say?” laughs God. “Well, I take my hat
off to him.
Let him hang up his mouth and pick out a cue and he’ll get the
shot that’s due him.
Any game he names — any table he’s able — any price he can
afford.”
“Straight pool for Heaven,” says Billy Markham.
“Straight pool it is,” says the Lord.
[storyend_dingbat.gif]
Crack! Billy Markham wins the break and busts ’em cool and clean.
The five ball falls, he sinks the seven, and then drops the 13.
He makes the nine, comes off the cushion and puts the six away,
Bags the three and the eight on a triple combination and wins the first
game on a smooth massé.
He takes the next game, the next and the next, and when he does finally
miss,
He dusts the blue off his hands, and his game score stands at 1376.
“Well, my turn at last,” says the Lord, chalkin’ up. “Son, you
sure shoot a wicked stick.
I’ll need some luck to beat a run like that; that is, without
resorting to miracles or tricks.”
“Hey, trick and be damned,” Billy Markham laughs. “Tonight I’m as hot as
flame.
So I laugh at your tricks — and I sneer at your stick — and I take
your name in vain.”
“Oooh”, goes the crowd that’s been gathering around. “Oooh”,
goes the rack boy in wonder.
“Oooh”, says Scuzzy Sleezo, “I think you just made a slight tactical
blunder.”
“Oooh”, says God, “you shouldn’t have said that, son, you
shouldn’t have said that at all!”
And his cue cracks out like a thunderbolt spittin’ a flamin’
ball.
It sinks everything on the table, then it zooms up off the
green,
Through the dirty window with a crash of glass and into the
wind like a woman’s scream,
Out of the pool hall, up through the skies, the cue ball
gleams and swirls,
Bustin’ in and out of every pool game in the world.
It strikes on every table, it crashes every rack,
And every pool ball in creation comes rebounding back!
Back through the window they tumble and crash, down through
the ceiling they spin.
A million balls rain down on the table and every one goes in.
“Now, there”, says Scuzzy Sleezo, “is a shot you don’t see every day.
Lord, you should have an agent to handle your press and build up the
class of your play.
My partnership with this sucker here has come to a termination.
But God and Scuzzy Sleezo? Hey, that would be a combination.”
Meanwhile, the cue ball flyin’ back last, like a sputterin’
fizzlin’ rocket,
Goes weaving dizzily down the cushion and — plunk! — falls
right in the pocket.
“Scratch!” says Billy Markham. “And you said you could shoot!”
“Scratch!” murmurs the crowd of hangers and hustlers. “At last we have
seen it all.
“Scratch!” mutters the Lord. “I guess I put a little too much
English on the ball,
Just another imperfection, I never get it quite on the button.
Tell you what, son, I’ll spot you three million balls and play
you one more double or nothin’.”
“Double what?” says Billy Markham. “I already whipped you like a child,
And I won my seat in Heaven, now I’m gonna set in it awhile.”
“Hit-and-run — chickenshit,” sneers God. “You said you was
the best.
Turns out you’re just a get-lucky-play-it-safe pussy like all
the rest.”
“Whoa-whoa”, says Billy. “There’s somethin’ in that voice I know quite
well.”
And he reaches out and yanks off God’s white beard — and there stands
the Devil himself!
“You said you was God”, Billy Markham cries. “You conned me
and hustled me, too!”
[markham24.jpg]
“I am God — sometimes — and sometimes I’m the Devil, good and bad,
just like you.
I’m everything and everyone in perfect combination,
And everybody but you kows that there ain’t no separation.
But go ahead,” sighs God, scribbling something down. “Give this note to
the angel on the wall,
And you sit up there ‘n’ plunk your harp.
Hey, anybody want to shoot some eight ball?”
And cold and white and tremblin’, Billy walks out into the
night,
Where a golden staircase stretches all the way to paradise.
And he grips the glitterin’ balustrade and begins his grand
ascent.
“Just a minute, good buddy”, yells Scuzzy Sleezo. “How about
my fifty percent?
I helped you win the champeenship — and you wouldn’t do ol’
Scuzzy wrong,
And since the purse is a seat in Heaven, you just gotta take
me along.”
“Just one minute”, says Billy Markham. “There’s something weird going on
in this game.
All the voices that I’m hearin’ start to soundin’ just the same.”
And he rips off Scuzzy Sleezo’s face and the Devil’s standing there.
“Good God,” yells Billy Markham, “are you — are you everywhere?”
“Yes, I am,” the Devil says. “And don’t look so damn
surprised.
I thought you could smuggle me into Heaven wearing my Sleezy
disguise.
‘Course, I could’ve walked in as Jehovah, but it just wouldn’t
have been the same,
But you and your corny Dick Tracy bit — you had to go ruin my
fantasy game.
Go on, climb up your golden stairs, enjoy your paradise,
But don’t rip off your own face, Bill — or you might get a
shockin’ surprise.”
Then up, up the golden stairway Billy Markham dizzily winds his way,
And high, high above him, he can hear his own songs bein’ played,
And down, down below, hear Scuzzy Sleezo curse his name,
To the click-click-click of the pool balls
As God hustles another game.
Billy Markham’s Descent
Billy Markham sits on an unwashed cloud, his hair is matted and mussed,
His dusty wings have been cast aside and his harp strings have gone to
rust.
There’s dirt beneath his fingernails and a glazed look in his eyes
As he sits like a burned-out acid freak and stares across the skies.
They had bathed his body in milk and myrrh; they had robed him in silver
gowns;
They had straightened his warp in his guitar neck, and gave him a golden
crown;
They had set him a place at the table of joy and the fountain of
knowledge, as well,
But he searches the heavens with haunted eyes — for his mind still
walks through Hell.
His thoughts are down in that nether world, in that burning fiery rain.
His thoughts are with his momma, how he longs to soothe her pain.
His thoughts are with his little girl, how he’d love to ease her cryin’.
His thoughts are with his own true love, how he’d love to bust her
spine.
So late that night, while the heavenly harps play In the Sweet Bye
and Bye,
Billy Markham reaches the silken rope that hangs down from the
sky.
He has stripped himself of his crown and robes; he has clutched
the silken cord;
He has swung him down without a sound, so’s not to wake the Lord.
And down he winds through the perfumed air, down through the
marshmallow clouds,
And he hangs for a while o’er the rooftops of earth, lookin’ down
at the scurrying crowds.
Then down through a manhole still clutching the rope, to a stench
that he knows quite well.
“Neath the sewers of the street, till he feels his feet touch the
shit-mucked shores of Hell.
He has scaled the crusted, rusted gates, he has thrown a bone to
the Hounds.
He has floated the putrid river Styx, still down and further down.
Down past the gluttons, the dealers and pimps, down past the murderer’s
cage,
Down past the rock stars searching in vain for their names on the
Cashbox page.
Down past the door of the Merchants of War, past the Puritan’s slop-
filled bin.
Past the Bigot’s hive, till at last he arrives, at the pit marked
BLAMELESS SINS.
He has found the vat where his momma boils; he has lifted her gently
from the deep.
He has found the grate where his little girl burns;
he has raised her and soothed her and rocked her to sleep.
he has found the pit where his sweetheart sleeps; he has spit on the
fire where she lay.
He has cursed her as a whore of Hell; he has cursed and turned away.
“From this day”, says Billy, “I place my faith only in mother and child,
And never again will I look for love in a bitch’s cum-stained smile.”
Then up, back up the rope he climbs, up through the sufferin’
swarms,
Past the clutching hands and the pitiful screams with his two
precious loves in his arms.
Just one more pull — just one more pull — then free forever
from Hell,
Just one more pull then — “Hello, Billy!” — and there stands
the Devil himself!
And now he wears his crimson robes and his horns are buttered
bright,
And blood oozes through his white-linen gloves and his skin
glows red in the night.
And his tail coils tight like an oily snake and the Hell-fires
flash from his eyes,
On those craggy rocks, he stands and blocks the way to
paradise.
“Well, what have we here”, the Devil says, “in my domain of sin?
In all my years as Prince of the Dark, it’s the first case of somebody
breakin’ in.
And of all the daredevil darin’ dudes, well, who should the hero be?
But my old friend Billy Markham — who once made a punk out of me.
I heard you was in Heaven, Billy, fuckin’ angels all day long,
What’s a matter — wouldn’t that heavenly choir sing none of your
raunchy songs?
Or maybe it’s the thought of the loves you sold and you couldn’t live
with the shame.
Or maybe, like every other loser, you just can’t stay ‘way from the
game.
You write your songs about standin’ strong, you sing about bein’ free,
But like a pussy-whipped fool who keeps on bitchin’
’bout his lover, you keep bitchin’ but comin’ back to me.
You made me the laughingstock of Hell and the whole world laughed with
you,
Now here you come crashin’ my party again; now tell me, just who’s
devilin’ who?
Now, I didn’t invite you down here, Bill, and nobody twisted your arm,
But you’re back down here on my turf now, down here where it’s cozy and
warm.
So no more dice and no more games and no more jive stories to tell,
Just the Devil and a man with some souls in his hand hangin’ ‘tween
Heaven and Hell.
But what is this?” the Devil says. “Only two souls you’ve set free?
You seem to forgot and left one behind; now, who could that one be?
Could it be your own true love, the one with the angel’s smile?
The one you curse with each bitter breath ’cause she played with the
Devil awhile?
You call yourself free?” the Devil laughs. “Why, you prudish, uptight
schmuck,
You’d leave your sweet love burn in Hell for one harmless little suck.
What would you rather she had done, leaped in the boiling manure . . .
So’s you could keep your fantasy of someone sweet and pure?
She saved her ass — and so would you — but still you curse her name.
Shit, you’d suck a million dicks to escape one childbirth pain.”
“Hey, it’s easy to talk to savin’ ass”, says Billy,
“forgiveness is easy to say,
But when the shame burns worse than Hades’ fires — how do you
talk that away?”
“Shame?” laughs the Devil. “She’s only a woman — she did what she had
to do,
And right or wrong, she needs no curse from the hypocrite lame like you.
. .
She shall rule with me in this Kingdom of Flame, she shall sit next to
me on my throne,
While you live with the truth — that the Devil’s heart has more pity
than your own.”
“Hey, wait a minute”, say Billy Markham. “I can’t believe what
you just said,
You givin’ me this whole philosophy shit just ’cause you like
the way she gave you head.
Why, you poor closet romantic, that chick was suckin’ for her
life.
Just wait see what kinda head you get after you make her your
wife.”
“In Hell”, shouts the Devil, “that’s blasphemy! I should burn you to
dust where you stand,
But the venom you’re carryin’ in your heart, that’s torture enough for
any man.
So get your ass up that silken rope, climb back to your promised land,
And hold your illusions of momma and daughter tight in your sweatin’
hand.
But you’ll see that they’re just bitches like she, and you’ll scream
when you find it’s true,
But stay up there and scream to God — Hell’s gates are closed to you.”
And Billy Markham, clutching his loves, climbs upward toward
the skies,
And is it the sharp night wind that brings the tears to
Billy’s eyes?
Or is it the swirling sulphur smoke or the bright glare of the
sun?
Or is it the sound of the wedding feast that the demons below
have begun?
As the Devil, he sits with his betrothed and they pledge their
love in the steam,
While halfway up the silken cord,
Billy Markham screams!
Billy Markham’s Wedding
The trumpets of Hell have sounded the word like a screeching clarion
call.
The trumpets of Hell have sounded the word and the word has been heard
by all.
The trumpets of Hell have sounded the word and it reaches the heavenly
skies,
Come angels, come demons, come half-breeds, too, the Devil is taking a
bride.
And out of the Pearly Gates they come in a file two by two,
For when the Devil takes a bride, there’s none that dares refuse.
And Jesus himself, he leads the way down through the starless night,
With Virgin Mary at his left side and Joseph on his right.
And then comes Adam and then comes Eve and saints move close behind
And all the gentle and all the good, in an endless column they wind.
Down, down to the pits of Hell, down from the heavens they sift
Like fallen stars to a blood-red sea, each bearing the Devil a gift.
The strong and the brave, the halt and the lame, the deaf and the blind
and the dumb,
And last of all comes Billy Markham, cursing the night as he comes.
Hell’s halls are decked with ribbons of red, the feast has been
prepared,
And Devil and bride sit side by side in skull-and-crossbone chairs,
And the Devil grins as his guests file in, for he is master now,
And one by one they enter his realm — and one by one they bow,
And the Devil whispers, “Thank the Lord,” and swells his chest with
pride
As they mouth their blessings and place their gifts at the feet of the
Devil’s bride.
[markham25.jpg]
Lucrezia Borgia has made the punch of strychnine, wine and
gin,
And Judas has set the supper table on hallowed, bloody linen.
The feast is a human barbecue and the sauce is beriberi
Flavored with gore from the burning hordes and cooked by
Typhoid Mary.
And everyone drinks of the bubblin’ brew and off come the
masks of virtue and sin,
And the Devil beams proud on the well-mixed crowd and cries,
“Let the revels begin!”
And the walls that separate Heaven and Hell crack and crumble
away,
And the Devil laughs and waves his tail and Hell’s band begins
to play.
There is Nero, madly fiddlin’ his fiddle and Gabriel on horn,
And the Black Bitch of Buchenwald beating her drum, and Arthur
Rank bangin’ his gong,
And Marie Laveau, she plays her bones and Yorick, he plays
his,
And Hank plays guitar with three strings broke, and that’s
what Hell really is.
And Janis and Elvis and Jimi and Cass, they’re up there
singin’ the blues,
And Adolf Hitler and Joan of Arc start doin’ the boogaloo.
Then Carry nation, she starts to strip and everyone applauds,
Except Lady Macbeth, who’s givin’ some head to Leonardo da
Vinci and Santa Claus.
And the Marquis de Sade does a promenade, laughing and
cracking his whips,
And Marilyn Monroe does a coochie show and Eve starts shaking
her hips.
And Sarah Bernhardt and Jessie James, they’re taking dirty
photos,
While out in the foyer, Richard the Third is comparing his
hump with Quasimodo’s.
And bare-ass naked on the balustrade sits Edgar Allan Poe
Posing for a two-dollar caricature by Michelangelo.
And Gypsy Rose Lee jumps on Francis Scott Key, and does a
quick trick with her fan,
While Ivan the Terrible’s trying to get into Virgin Mary’s
pants.
Henry the Eighth, he screams, “More food, more music, more
wine, more wives,”
While Lizzie Borden and Jack the Ripper, they’re out on the
terrace comparing knives.
Lenny Bruce, he moons the crowd while swinging from the
ceiling,
And Jesus and Judas have one more drink just to show there’s
no hard feelings.
Then Catherine the Great, she’s givin’ her number to the horse
of Paul Revere,
While Don Juan’s whisperin’ love and lust into Helen Keller’s
ear.
And General Grant, he’s playing backgammon in the corner with
Robert E. Lee,
While Freud and Rasputin are arguing pussy with Attila the Hun
and Socrates.
And John Wilkes Booth, he’s havin’ a toot, and J. Edgar
Hoover’s in drag,
While Amelia Earhart is talkin’ to Lindbergh, ’bout splittin’
a five-cent bag,
And Mary Baker Eddy’s drunk and tellin’ dirty jokes,
And Fatty Arbuckle’s shoutin’, “Hey, anybody got another
coke?”
And Alice Toklas and Gertrude Stein are gigglin’ behind the
door,
While the Daughters of Lot are yellin’, “Hey, Pop, let’s do
just once more.”
And Florence Nightingale’s offerin’ a beer to the Man in the
Iron Mask,
While Plato’s shovin’ cashew nuts up Marco Polo’s ass,
And Billy Sunday and Mary Magdalene announce they’re goin’
steady,
And Abel and Cain form a daisy chain with Jeanette MacDonald
and Nelson Eddy.
Then Doctor Faust snorts too much coke and punches out Errol
Flynn
Over some 13-year-old girl that they’re both interested in.
And Nero’s laughin’ as he sets fire to Mata Hari’s hair,
While Oscar Wilde says to Billy the Kid, “Hey, Kid, let me
show you round upstairs.”
And the Devil, he drinks his boiling blood and glances side to
side,
From the eyes of Billy Markham to the eyes of his own sweet
bride.
Then the music comes to a screechin’ halt and the revelers
freeze where they stand
As Billy Markham approaches the throne and says, “May I have
this dance?”
“Can this be Billy Markham”, sneers the Devil, “who loves only the
chaste and the pure?
No, Billy wouldn’t bow and kiss the hand of a woman he once called
whore.
But whoever this poor, lonely wretch may be, it is my wedding whim,
That no man be refused this day — step down, darlin’, and dance with
him.”
The Devil grins and waves his hand, the music starts gentle and warm,
As the lady nervously steps from her throne into Billy Markham’s arms.
And the guests all snicker and snigger and wait, and they watch the
dancers’ eyes,
As round and round the floor they swirl ‘tween Hell and paradise.
“Oh, baby doll”, whispers Billy Markham, “I have done you an
awful wrong,
And to show how rotten low I feel, I even wrote about it in a
song.
I never should’ve called you a scuzzy whore — I never
should’ve spit on your bed,
And I never should’ve left you to burn here in Hell just
’cause you give the Devil some head.
But if there’s any hellish and heavenly way that I can make it
right,
If it costs my balls, over Hades’ walls, I’ll get you away
tonight.”
And the lady smiles a wanton smile, as round and round the
room they swing.
And she whispers low in Billy’s ear. . . “There is one little
thing. . .”
[storyend_dingbat.gif]
Now the hall is empty, the guests are gone, and there on the rusted
throne,
Hand in hand in golden bands, the Devil and bride sit alone.
And the Devil stretches and yawns and grins, “It has been quite a day.
Now I guess it’s time to seal our love in the usual mortal way.”
And the Devil strips off his crimson cloak, and he casts his pitchfork
aside,
And he frees his oily two-pronged tail, and waits to take his bride.
And his true love lifts her wedding dress up over her angel’s head
And hand in hand they make their way to the Devil’s firery bed.
And her upturned breasts glow warm in the fire
And her legs are shapely and slim
And for the very first time since time began, the Devil feels passion in
him.
“Now for the moment of truth”, he whispers. “My love, my queen, my
choice.”
“I love you, too, motherfucker”, she laughs — in Billy
Markham’s voice.
And the Devil leaps up and howls so loud that the fires of Hell blow
cold.
“Ain’t no big deal”, says Billy’s voice. “While we was dancing, we
swapped souls.
Now she’s up in Heaven singin’ my songs and wearin’ my body, too,
Safe forever in the arms of the Lord, while I’m down here in the arms of
you.”
“Why, you crawlin’ crud”, the Devil cries, “I’ll teach you to
fuck with my brain.
I’ll give you a child who weighs ninety-five pounds, you talk
about screamin’ pain!”
“Hold on”, says Billy Markham, “I will be your wife only in name —
You come near me with that double-pronged dick and I’ll rip it right off
your frame.”
“Not so loud”, the Devil whispers. “If Hell learns what’s been
done,
They’ll laugh me off this golden throne and damn me to kingdom
come.
And you — you’ve given me my true love’s body with a
hustler’s soul inside.
You know more of torture than I’ve ever dreamed — you’re fit
to be my bride.”
“Well, don’t take it so hard”, Billy Markham says. “You know things
could be lots worse.
Havin’ her soul in my body — now, that would be a curse.
But you and me, we got lots in common, we both like to shoot the shit,
And we both like to joke and we both like to smoke and we both like to
gamble a bit,
And that could be the makin’s for a happy marriage, and since neither of
us ever gonna die,
Well, we might as well start the honeymoon — you wanna cut the cards or
should I?”
Now, the wedding night is a hundred years past and their
garments have rotted to rags.
But face to face they sit in the flames, dealing five-card
stud and one-eyed jacks.
And sometimes they play pinochle, sometimes they play gin,
And sometimes the Devil rakes in the pots, and sometimes the
lady wins,
And sometimes they just sit and reminisce of the night when
they first were wed.
From dawn to dawn the game goes on. . .They never go to bed.
[../images/byshel2.jpg]
From Playboy Magazine, January, 1979
October 3, 2008 at 12:24 am
javajones
John – Thanks a lot. I was looking for this, but never found it!
July 3, 2009 at 8:44 pm
j hartsook
thank you so much for writing that out this was the only place that I could find it in its entirety. My dad told me how great this poem was and he was right. This is definitely one of the best things Ive ever read and I would not have found it unless you had written it out. Thank you so much.
January 13, 2010 at 4:34 pm
Scott
Thank you for posting this. After the closure of banned-width.com, I’m having trouble finding a lot of Shel’s adult poems. I wonder if we can contact his estate and offer to transcribe them and host a website archive. It’d be a shame if future generations couldn’t memorize poems like the Smoke Off, the Perfect High, and other epic Shel adult poems.
January 14, 2010 at 12:58 am
javajones
Hi Scott – Good idea about contacting Shel’s estate – and you’re right on about the loss to future generations. Good luck – and do let me know if you have any success.
You could try http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bM8PIcilZXY to check out some of Shel’s poetry (including ‘The perfect high’)
Cheers!