The Devil Went Down To Georgia

“Oh, come on, why does the marriage have to be THERE?” I pouted, looking at my fiancee.
“That’s the environment I’m used to. Please, sweetheart, for me?” I could hardly deny the way his black piggy eyes pleaded.
“Please, Lu? Please? I want to get married in my home town!!” I tried. He took my hand in his black hoof.
“Whatever you want, darling.” He smiled. I smiled back. “Can I bring my fiddle?”
“Bring whatever you want!!” I said. He made his golden fiddle appear out of thin air, and began to play. A band of demons joined in.
“Hey! No! No! Stop!” a young man shouted, running at us.
“Who’re you?” I sneered.
“I’m Johnny, and I’m telling yah once you son of a bitch, I’m the best that’s ever been!!” the man grabbed the golden fiddle right out of my fiancee’s hooves.
“Hey, I don’t wanna fight.” Lu said. Always the peace maker.
“I challenge you to a fiddle playin’ contest!!”
In the song, the one Johnny wrote, the devil started the contest.
It was actually the other way around.

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