The are many shades of Hell,
An underworld of bubbling vats, asquirm with rabid rats,
scalds so sorry sinners midst, a zillion flapping bats.
The preachers pray, and clergies pay, that none may know a day
so gray. They all should know its vain. when Satan licks his lips.
He's going win his war with God, he's got it in his grips,
but for that frickin' Hebrew kid, whose stupid stunt undid
his battleplan, for now. His Demons would have gotten rid
of nasty jealous angels who lied to God, ( who then
gave him the boot.) Someday he'll hoot to see the end of men!
There are many roads to Hell,
Such agony and emptiness inter-penetrates the heart.
When loved ones go, the ice winds blow, since we don't have the art
to separate from grief. There's no relief for many tears
through many years, to soothe the ache that never disappears.
When lovely things move on, the loss of beautiful and sweet,
eviscerates one's innocence, and wreaks complete defeat.
Betrayal brings the pistol and the knife, and then the jail,
where decades of lament won't bring back Life's most honeyed graille.
There are many types of Hell,
Poor Man's Hell!
What a mass of pay demands, swirl endlessly like bees.
Late bills bring nastygrams and threats, and huge re-doubled fees.
No work for men without a trade, except work as a mule,
where pay is low, and wages go, and hungry is the rule.
Where children fail and end in jail, or druggy street-crook flops,
new enemies abound for them, the least of which are cops.
Them what's got, and them with not, divides perfume from smog,
much like a brace of scented flowers, does from a stinking bog.
There are many shapes of Hell,
A grisly bloody gutpile, the battlefield betrays
when mourning Sun pours forth its disbelieving rays.
A bomb off-course, blasts baby mamas, and their babies, too.
Oblique despair soon forgotten; just meat in misery's stew.
A streak of lead explodes a head, and all its comrades fall,
Those soon Dead, raise their guns and cheer this never ending brawl.
The constantcy of death and injury, destroys men's hearts.
and fleeces them their chance to learn the Soul's mystic arts.
There are many kinds of Hell,
This Universe gives evidence that any man can see.
The cosmic sprawl of stars that's spread across the galaxy
should be a clue that indicates we arn't alone. Belief,
in lieu of logic, squats on truth to poop out cheap relief
from lazy doubts. Thought itself is sacred, if it rings True!
A community of fully thoughtful people are they, who
ploy no noisy brassy bull, to have their way. The lack of clamor's clang,
creates a brookside flowered field, where Hell can have no fang.