Take a harp, go about the city,
You forgotten harlot;
Make sweet melody, sing many songs,
That you may be remembered.
                                    Isaiah 23:16

In the boogie-woogie brothel
The clients enjoy
A devilish syncopation
Wherein ragtime revel
(hops/barley/sugarcane/rye/ginever)
Reveals base barbecue of ******* beats:
Dixieland, jazz blues, doo-***, tinpan cakewalk,
psychobilly, funkafied filth, the Charleston . . .

Smoke-filled music overflows the saloon;
(tobacco/cannabis/poppy/psilocybin/crystallized coca rock)
brings a sparkle to the eyes
and red laser pointers
to the PowerPoint™ screen
of Lucifer’s marketing and sales division:

murmur murmur how can we market
this **** tree in the middle of the garden, huh?
—what, the Knowledge of Good and Evil?
people don’t need trees like that anymore;
they want extreme trees—
they want ****, they want antisocial . . .
—yeah but how are we gonna SELL it?
  —well, were there not TWO trees ?
cut one down and sell the other!
murmur murmur murmur

The marketing minions wrangle
Over Satan’s next big thing.
The ebony Tree of Life sits sullen and angry.
Her regal Afrolinguistic foliage be like:

Ima *** PAID fo MY hustle—
Cuz girls is playaz too.