There Are No Fools in Heaven (Anyman’s Inferno) John Hartford

A vulture sits perched on the bones of the dead
The sky and the earth are smoldering red
The tree that drank life from the chest of the soil
Clutches in vain to a limp pool of oil

The midgets are running their horns are on fire
The women are screaming and clutching the wire
The tears of the flesh on the hands of the rich
Who plead with the guard for relief from the itch
But in heaven they are not itching

Their front teeth are ground with a stone of a lie
Spit blood on the hands of those who ask why
A wheeze from a throat that's scorched till it’s black
From tendons that break on the hooks of the rack

The four million faces that just keep movin' on
The soles of their feet are worn to the bone
The skins of the thirsty hang limp from dead trees
And no ear is turned to the rasp of their pleas
But in heaven they are not thirsty

Bodies are piled in the pits of the damned
Gasping for air as they're buried in sand
A thick blistered tongue licks out at a tear
That oozes in vain from an eye filled with fear