He took a slug between the eyes,

Some dusty street, some fair goodbye.

They laid him down, boots still on tight,

He saw a tunnel, full of light.

A choir sang with golden glow,

And clouds were soft like driven snow.

“Hot damn,” he grinned, “I made it clean!”

That six-gun life? Just a bad dream.

He thought he made it, made the sky,

With angel wings and apple pie.

The gates were pearl, the harps were gold,

His sins all bought, his soul all sold.

But hold on tight, don’t celebrate—

They ain’t done yet, just check the gate.

He thought he won, but fate’s a joker—

That ain’t St. Pete, that’s Satan’s broker.

A blonde with wings and devil’s hips

Led him past clouds with swaying lips.

Said, “Let me show you all your deeds—

The lust, the greed, the drunken feeds.”

She winked and laughed, “You’ll do just fine,

They love your kind where flames align.”

He chuckled loud, still not aware—

The scent of brimstone in the air.

He thought he made it, made the sky,

With angel wings and apple pie.

The choir sang, the robes were clean,

But felt too hot for something green.

He danced through rooms, no clue, no care—

Till every saint had devil’s glare.

He thought he’d dine with lambs and doves—

But now he’s sweating down below the gloves.

Through marble halls and gold-lit doors,

Where screams were masked by holy choirs,

An old man came with snowy beard,

Looked wise as hell—and deeply weird.

He spoke of wars and who he killed,

Of girls and drinks and banks he drilled.

Then grinned and said, “Well, that’s enough—

You’re brave… but not exactly ‘tough’.”

They passed a gate with spikes and smoke,

He smelled burnt hair, began to choke.

The harps were gone, the wings were red,

And lava bubbled where angels fled.

There Hitler played the tambourine,

While Caesar danced with Ponzi’s scheme.

He screamed, “Oh Lord, this ain’t the plan!”

But Lucifer just slapped his hand.

He thought he’d fly with saints above,

But ended up where devils shove.

The choir burned, the preacher laughed,

They toasted him on Satan’s raft.

The moral’s clear: don't trust the view—

A gold-plated gate might burn right through.

So live it clean, or twist and yell—

Cause heaven’s slick, but hell sells well.

"I seen the light, boys…

But it was just the fire under the floor.

Turns out heaven’s got a dress code…

And I showed up in blood and gunpowder."