Baptist Street Preachers Make Me Curious About Hell

When I don’t know what to say I rhyme words

Sounds absurd, but my eyes have left their dots

And my commas crawl up walls to cracks and form rocks

Drop-ING on my head, hit-ING that tender spot

I see the devil sometimes

He resides in the corners of my mind

In the corners of my room

Mushroom epidemic

No not it, just yet

I can feel his presence

He’s pissed

That he missed his licks

He licks his chops

And hopes to chop me to bits

Shreds, Devils dead

Devil’s head

I bled for the things I said

I dread the death of the Devil’s bid

I can’t say he made me

Because I willfully did the things I did



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