Tar Brown lipstick covers worn drawn lips,

Doors to the Rotting Teeth tribe.

They reside in a cesspool, of which they call Mouth,

Their home, their grave, their life.

With every breath drawn, forlorn cries sweep the land,

Eulogies of the dying and old, they are the Lung Lords

Who hold reign in Hell-the tar pits far below.

The Teeth have a saying, their only in fact-

"The god giveth, but taketh away." For in theory

They're right, but in they end they're not:

Death comes from the Cancerous Boils.

Up until then they are pleasant enough,

Well, after the repeated storms:

Black clouds roll forth, hot in and out,

Showering the land with black soil.

This is their nutrient, the life giving force,

Rotting Teeth crave it like blow;

All members get Nicotine, their god given right,

Merrily they'll dance on their roots;

Their god may be, the most fickle of masters,

Butit's all the old-timers know.