It’s not kick you in the face spicy,
But it sure as hell ain’t mild.
It’s up around the hellfire range,
But not so raw defiled.
It’ll punch you in the ****,
And then laugh to see you cry.
You’ll be sweating, you’ll be sick
You’ll be terrified you’ll die.
It’ll wrap around your eyes and lungs
And when it kills you dead
Of a scalded, sunscorched tongue,
You’ll have flames about your head.
It’ll maraud, all burnt and clawed
Your mouth, beyond the point of pain
But when you reach the throne of God,
You’ll think of it as rain
On a summer day in August
Just before the wind turned cold,
Ere the dry and spiteful dust
Sanded up your sinner’s soul.
It’ll make you wish to live again
To taste that awful tang.
You’ll be as old Beelzebub
To hear the church bells clang.
It’ll knock you down to kiss the floor
With sweet and sweltered spice,
You’ll slip and stumble to the door
Like wagon wheels on ice.
You’ll cough until you almost crack,
You’ll search for one more breath,
And when you find it, you’ll go back
For one more bite of death.