Where do bad folks go when they die
They don't go to heaven where the angels fly

They go to the bottom of a fire and fry
And I won't see them again until I die

I knew many who took their last breath
With a needle in their arm and you know the rest

They went to their grave just a little too soon
They flew away howling on the yellow moon

Now these people cry and these people moan
They look for a good place to call their home

They try to find some place to rest their bones
While the demons and the devils try to make them their own

They go to the bottom of a fire and fry