[Intro – 105 BPM, 4/4. Jaunty Telecaster chicken-picking, walking upright bass, brushed shuffle drums, honky-tonk piano, playful pedal steel. 4 bars.] [Verse 1 – WRITER, male baritone, cheerful country storytelling] Well, the Devil opened up a noodle stand, With a hot wok and a fork in hand. Got a sauce called FUCK RIGHT OFF, hot as sin, And a line of hungry folks comin' in. Eighty hours a week, he's doin' just fine, Never takes a break, never closes on time. He's the Prince of Darkness, can't you tell? But he's makin' good noodles down in Hell! [Chorus 1 – WRITER, jaunty country swing, bright harmonies] He's cookin' noodles down in Hell, With a hot sauce he can sell, Eighty hours every week, And business goin' swell! No vacation, no overtime, But he's doin' mighty well, He's cookin' noodles down in Hell! [Verse 2 – WRITER, same cheerful delivery] No health, no drugs, no dental plan, No glasses for the poor old man. No sick days and no holiday, But the boss says that's the price you pay. Got a mortgage and a busted stove, And a health inspector on the road. He's got a million souls to fry— [ABRUPT STOP – Full band cuts out mid-bar. Record scratch. Silence.] [DEVIL – Deep gravelly bass-baritone, spoken, furious] HOLD IT! WHO THE HELL IS WRITING THIS?! [WRITER – Spoken, mildly surprised] Uh... me. [DEVIL] YOU GAVE ME A JOB?! [WRITER] It's honest work. [DEVIL] I'M THE DEVIL! [WRITER] And apparently, you're an excellent cook. [DEVIL] EIGHTY HOURS? NO OVERTIME? NO HEALTH? NO DENTAL? NO VACATION?! [WRITER] Well... you're salaried. [DEVIL] I DON'T GET A SALARY! [WRITER] Then you're an entrepreneur. [DEVIL] I'M GONNA ENTREPRENEUR YOUR ASS! [Instrumental – Devil slams a low piano chord. Hammond B3 enters, distorted Telecaster, honking tenor sax, heavy jump-blues shuffle. Tempo increases to 120 BPM.] [Verse 3 – DEVIL takes over, aggressive rhythmic blues delivery] I ran the fires, I ruled the pit, Had kings and tyrants throwin' fits! Now I'm scrubbin' pots at half past two, 'Cause some damn songwriter told me to! I want my horns, my throne, my crown, And every lawyer in this town! [WRITER – Spoken] You already have all the lawyers. [DEVIL – Spoken] ...Fair point. [DEVIL – Sung, growling] But now I've figured out your game, And I'm about to change the name! [Chorus 2 – DEVIL forcibly replaces the original chorus. Full jump-blues brass, Hammond B3, pounding drums.] YOU'RE cookin' noodles down in Hell, With that hot sauce you can sell! Eighty hours every week, And YOU'LL be doin' swell! No vacation, no overtime, And no damn dental plan! YOU'RE cookin' noodles down in Hell, And I'M the writin' man! [WRITER – Spoken, protesting over music] Hey! That's MY chorus! [DEVIL] Not anymore! [WRITER] You can't just change the lyrics! [DEVIL] Watch me! [WRITER – Commanding] [Return to original country arrangement. Telecaster solo, 8 bars.] [DEVIL – Interrupting, shouting] NO! HAMMOND B3! TWENTY-PIECE BRASS BAND! NOW! [Instrumental Battle – Telecaster attempts a country solo, interrupted by explosive Hammond B3 glissando and roaring brass. Drums switch to thunderous jump-blues shuffle. 8 bars.] [WRITER – Spoken, panicking] STOP! I'M THE SONGWRITER! [DEVIL – Spoken, delighted] Then why's the band listenin' to ME? [Bridge – DEVIL, swaggering, triumphant blues vocal. Brass punctuations after every line.] I changed the words, I stole the beat, I put your name on the kitchen sheet. Your apron fits, your shift starts now, And I just sold your guitar for a cow! No holidays, no paid sick leave, No Christmas off, no New Year's Eve! You made the rules, you wrote the deal, Now tell me how that bargain feels! [WRITER – Spoken, desperate] You can't do this! I CREATED YOU! [DEVIL – Spoken, cold and amused] Yeah? Well, somebody created YOU, too. [Silence – 2 beats.] [DEVIL – Spoken, addressing the listener] And YOU out there... quit grinnin'. You're next if you hit replay. [Final Chorus – DEVIL, triumphant. Writer reduced to reluctant backing vocals. Full brass, Hammond B3, Telecaster, pedal steel, honky-tonk piano.] YOU'RE cookin' noodles down in Hell, With that hot sauce you can sell! Eighty hours every week, And YOU'LL be doin' swell! No vacation, no overtime, And no damn dental plan! YOU'RE cookin' noodles down in Hell, And I'M the writin' man! [Outro – Music drops to sparse upright bass and brushed snare.] [WRITER – Spoken, exhausted] At least I get Sundays off? [DEVIL – Spoken, cheerfully] Sure! Every seventh Sunday. [WRITER] Well... that's not so bad. [DEVIL] Of February. [WRITER] ...What? [DEVIL – Spoken, final, authoritative] NOW GET BACK TO WORK! TABLE SIX WANTS MORE FUCK RIGHT OFF SAUCE! [END – One explosive brass stab. Immediate silence. No further vocals.]
