"Americans in Hell" a poem

Volume I, Issue 2 Poems

Chuck Lipsig

Americans in Hell

The Devil said unto the Lord, “You’ve played a nasty trick.
Not since you flung me down here have I ever felt so sick.
For you’ve condemned all sorts of folk to my eternal care,
But now you’ve sent Americans. Good God, sir, is that fair?
For all you’ve sent before them were no trouble, for the most:
Hardly the sort of fighters that long ago were your host.
It’s kings and queens and emperors and dictators they’ve served,
So when it comes to face me down, they hardly have the nerve
To protest when I torture them. Oh, they are my delight:
Broken down in lifetime, they have no hope to see more light.
But Americans condemned to me, I can’t understand.
Did you change the formula, when you made them for that land?
They won’t give in to torture: When I burn them, they make ice.
When I freeze them, they make fire. Whenever a demon tries,
To slice them up, they will fight back, and three times out of four,
For all the pain that they sustain, they give back even more.
Now they’ve taken my brimstone and set it aside to cool
And my demons’ swords and pitchforks, they’ve reforged into tools
To build bridges in my valleys and cities in my hills
And half my lava rivers with clear water they have filled.
I try to reason with these souls and get them to give in,
They say, ‘What else can you do, whether this be grace or sin?’
And now they’re building something new, these dead, eternal souls:
New roads and war machinery: I fear that their next goal
Is to lay siege to my towers, my castles, and my halls.
Good God, who has cast me down here! Where have I left to fall?
There’s but one hope I have for them: That is, when they are through
Taking over my Hell from me, that, God, they’ll come for you.”