Where do bad folks go when they die?
They don't go to heaven where the angels fly
go to the lake of fire and fry
see them again 'till the fourth of July

I knew a lady who came from Duluth
bitten by a dog with a rabid tooth
She went to her grave just a little too soon
flew away howling on the yellow moon

people crying people moan
look for a dry place to call their home
try to find some place to rest their bones
While the angels and the devils try to make them their own