Jimmy Page rips into his guitar as I rip into some nachos,
Covered with some real toxic-spicy **** I accidentally created in the kitchen,
And suddenly Black Dog becomes an anthem to my agony.
The habanero peppers dig hooks in as the serannos and the jalapenos begin going to work,
Hitting me with staccato body blows,
Pausing but for a moment before laying in again.
It's as if the very air itself is aflame,
The sriracha's heat sears my throat and lungs,
With the cayenne peppers charring my stomach.
My eyes water,
I want to wail like Plant at the moment,
As sweat begins to gather on my brow,
The sickly sweet stink of the apple cider vinegar used laces the air and stings the nose,
****** hair practically gets singed as it passes.
Page let's loose a riff with his instrument that imitates my heartbeat,
As the heat finally grows too high.
I reach for my only lifeline,
Something almost as terrible as the devil's ketchup itself.
I take the mason jar and take a swig,
And another fire snuffs out the one currently raging in my esophagus and brain.
My breath fast,
Blinking hard and quick,
As the song fades along with a bit of my happiness at creating something so wicked,
As I grab another chip...
