The gall that boils beneath,
In recess dark
And crevasse deep,
Seethes it wan'dring way,
Wending throughout every day,
Toiling full of wicked joy,
Seeking what it can destroy.
The turbid liquids roil on.
The dregs, feculent and foul,
Sullying what they come upon,
Ever burning, on they crawl.
Squalid bile filling up,
Will you drink this nasty cup?
Why did you fill it then?
Mixing party-drinks of sordid...Sin.