Meeting The Man Who Holds The Gun

He made the Devil,
just so I could have someone to blame.
He created me the Devil,
just to hide his name.

Put Satan in my cigarette,
to make me feel cool.
And put Beelzebub in all my drinks,
so I don't feel the fool.
My hedonistic hypodermic lying on the floor,
my passion spilled across the chest of last night's three-drink whore.

He smiles from within my mind,
at seeing such success.
His pride is swelling deep in me,
a second pulse against my chest.

But when the moment passes,
and my demon goes to sleep,
I fall upon my scarring knees,
and cannot help but weep.
He clicks across my cortex,
a signal from the void.
He tells me he's my best friend,
and the others I'll avoid.

And when the system reboots,
and the drugs have left the stream,
it's only then I feel control,
and only then I hear him scream.
"I am old and they are new"
"Fuck them, scum, they don't know you"
I cannot sleep with him inside,
I drown him from my tired mind.

And when the bottle has run dry,
he is free to run awry.
To whisper sin in to my ear,
and I do not know if you should meet him, dear.