The roots of my religion can not be hummed. No trite hymn sung in the key of G will capture the wailing and the gnashing of teeth. The great lake of fire burning for all eternity.

IF THE DEMONS DON’T GET YOU,
THEY’LL GET YOUR WIFE!

The roots of my religion cannot be hummed. It hisses and spits, it pounds the pulpit

red-faced.

Lava scorches mountainsides and Pele’ screams and wails in pain and jealousy,
her lover stolen and a thousand innocents are cast in to the burning Flames.

The roots of my religion can not be
hummed. There is fear and death, sacred is synonymous with scared, Things die & decay, the putrid stench of Kali’s breath rolls toward the
congregants

heads bowed in pews full of rage and grief.

The roots of my religion are not pretty.
It does not make a good song.

The roots of my religion can not be hummed they must be wailed. And when the Rapture finally comes, bloody entrails slip through your fingers, left behind as you ascend.