TOO ROTTEN RANK FOR HELL
(Dedicated to the Journalistic Prostitutes of Capitalism)
The Devil stood, as a devil should,
Near a pit of burning coals,
And without a word his red imps stirred
A stew of dead men's souls.
And the caldron hubbled and bubbled and boiled,
And the red imps hurried and scurried and toiled,
And the vapors were whirling and curling that coiled
From the stew of dead men's souls.
The soul of a witch and a red-eyed bitch
That was born in a black eclipse.
A detective or two, were thrown into the stew,
And the Devil smacked his lips.
A preacher, a pimp, and a boot-licking slave,
A bugger, a slugger, a light-fingered knave,
A "stool" and a ghoul who had opened a grave . . .
And the Devil smacked his lips.
Said he "Make it rougher and ranker and tougher
I am sick of the likes of these;
So they brought a mine-guard with his yellow-leg pard . . .
No, something still rottener, please
"They're as shameless and nameless as any I meet,
And as foul as I make 'em or take 'em to eat,
But I now wish a lavishing, ravishing treat
Of something still rottener, please."
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