Drug Dealers Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

I do hate thee
and count the ways.
you hide inside
a toxic haze.

That rotten smell,
sound of your voice
your place is Hell,
you have no choice.

I must assume
that God can make
a witch with broom
and you, the flake.

But his intent?
It will not click,
who would invent
a drug-soaked prick?

Well, up in Heaven,
the two discuss,
each night at seven
the earthly fuss.

Satan and God
debate and choose,
and give the nod
to those who lose.

Thus God receives
repenting souls,
while Satan grieves
for ugly moles.

Will they decide
for gutter-creeps,
through whose thin hide
the badness seeps?

A low-life man
like you arrives,
whose evil plan
ruined many lives.

No one will cringe,
you'll plead in vain.
Take the syringe,
Scum Of Cocaine!

Of all the fools
a handful lack
those innate rules,
they won't come back.

The time will come
when D N A
of filth and scum
will have to pay.

ANNIHILATE
each single cell,
that is your fate.
You won't make Hell.