The devil’s in my car.
He’s a man of wealth and taste.
Are we supposed to guess his name? What’s puzzling me is the nature of his game.
If you go by looks, Eddie Van Halen has been running with him for far too long.
I pray there ain’t no hell. But only my dying will tell.
…
I have nothing to worry about. He’s down in Georgia.
I tried shouting at him, but then I set off running but I took my time. I figure a friend of the Devil’s a friend of mine.
And on a related note, a damn good fiddle player, too.
And a transvesite who likes to wear a blue dress.
Standin’ at the crossroad, baby, risin’ sun goin’ down
Standin’ at the crossroad, baby, eee, eee, risin’ sun goin’ down
I believe to my soul, now, poor Bob is sinkin’ down
Robert Johnson sold his soul to the Devil to write the Blues.
Occasionally he’s been known to look, walk, and talk like an angel.
But every single one of us the devil inside…
I thought he was up in Michigan?
I thought I was equidistant from him and the deep blue sea.
He’s the wolf screaming lonely in the night.
He’s the blood stain on the stage.
He’s the tear in your eye, being tempted by his lies.
He’s the knife in your back.
He’s rage.
To HELL with the devil!
He likes titties and beer.
Ah, whisky you’re the divil.
There’s a Highway that will help you take him there.