A Quest for Tophet

'Twas a hell of a Hell they glimpsed, my son,
   In superstitious days
When cultured man had scarce begun 
   To shed barbaric ways:
With gridirons set above the flame
   For naughty gentlemen.
Who uttered lies that earned them blame
   And righteous folk condemn.
'Twas a terrible sort of a Hell, my son,
   That crude man pictured then.

But picture a land laid waste, my lad,
   In scientific style,
While supermen of a world gone mad
   Plan forms of torture vile;
While innocent children fight for breath
   In a gas-filled city's street,
And mothers of men call on kind Death
   As a friend whose kiss is sweet.
If you're looking about for a Hell, my lad,
   You will find this hard to beat.

'Twas the deuce of a Devil they raised, my son,
   To rule in their ancient Hells -
Horns and a tail, yet a figure of fun,
   With a hint of the cap and bells.
With a fork for weapon, he roamed the earth
   To garner the souls of men,
Who had slipped from grace: and, with shouts of mirth,
   He pitched them into his Pen.
'Twas a humorous sort of a Devil, my son,
  That dull folk fled from then.

But picture a Devil at work, my boy,
   In his foetid chemical lair.
As he brews Hell broths with a ghoulish joy
   To foul god's clean sweet air.
Picture a Devil with bombs on high -
   Mass murderer, reeking sin,
As he rains gaunt death from a smiling sky,
   And goes, with a maniac grin.
If you're seeking a Devil sans mercy, boy,
   He is here, 'neath your Brother's skin.