The magnificent beast of violent vulgarity sat crying on a damp, dusty slab. Under the weight of 78 tears, the Devil weighed his options, and settled on inevitable defeat. Not even Harry James and his Orchestra could coerce the Devil from his lamenting hysteria, and the Devil knew it. His number had been called, and he knew it was his turn.
He had been licked, this sultry workhorse, and the new champion was ushered in atop a crowd of hope, and a flock of aspiration. He knew he was no longer feared, and with that, he knew there was nothing left. The world stood by with gaping mouths, as The Devil Sat Down and Cried.