From a song called Hell

The irony of buying land but never allowed to land

This is not the part of a pistil of a flower
Which receives the pollen grains and on which they
Germinate
This is not a mark or a stain
Nor discredit
Nor a sign of disease
This is pain

I am going to Hell
To
Buy some land
Blown about on stormy winds
The second circle
where Hell proper begins

This is not the part of a whistle
Of it's sound
Of the ball that moves around
In it's bell
As you exhale
Through the slit
Of the mouthpiece
And the string
That it's strung
Is not your neck it hangs upon
It is Satan's

This is where the famous lovers go
As the Tempest whips and beats them
Whith whirling sweep
Whipped and beaten