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.