A Quest For Tophet

'Twas a hell of a Hell they glimpsed, my son, In superstitious days When cultured man had scarce begun To shed barbaric ways: With gridirons set above the flame For naughty gentlemen. Who uttered lies that earned them blame And righteous folk condemn. 'Twas a terrible sort of a Hell, my son, That crude man pictured then. But picture a land laid waste, my lad, In scientific style, While supermen of a world gone mad Plan forms of torture vile; While innocent children fight for breath In a gas-filled city's street, And mothers of men call on kind Death As a friend whose kiss is sweet. If you're looking about for a Hell, my lad, You will find this hard to beat. 'Twas the deuce of a Devil they raised, my son, To rule in their ancient Hells Horns and a tail, yet a figure of fun, With a hint of the cap and bells. With a fork for weapon, he roamed the earth To garner the souls of men, Who had slipped from grace: and, with shouts of mirth, He pitched them into his Pen. 'Twas a humorous sort of a Devil, my son, That dull folk fled from then. But picture a Devil at work, my boy, In his foetid chemical lair. As he brews Hell broths with a ghoulish joy To foul god's clean sweet air. Picture a Devil with bombs on high - Mass murderer, reeking sin, As he rains gaunt death from a smiling sky, And goes, with a maniac grin. If you're seeking a Devil sans mercy, boy, He is here, 'neath your Brother's skin.