I'd never gone to church, much less revered a crucifix,

so when I died, 'twas natural that I'd cross the river Styx;

the boatman gave a hollow laugh, then coughed a spumey wrack,

I'd asked him was there anyone who ever made it back...

He stopped the oar's tattoo and pulled his hood back from his face,

his skin was old as time, he whispered: 'From the other place?

Our sulfurous destination, where your life's eked out in screams?

There's plenty have escaped, my son - but only in their dreams!'

He laughed until he hacked and fell upon the rowboat floor,

I looked around and saw the crowd that stood on Satan's shore:

A million drooling demons waited there - my soul to take,

a voice within me shouted NO - my hands began to shake.

The boatman lay there helpless, I could turn the craft around -

then suddenly there came a roaring, unfamiliar sound,

my blood was rushing through my veins and turned my vision red,

I grabbed the oar, and screaming loudly, smashed the boatman's head.

The moaning, droning multitude fell silent as they saw,

a fiery raven fell into a monster's gaping maw,

I pulled away and closed my eyes to row with all my might,

this league of devils wouldn't feast upon my soul this night.

The sky then turned from purple, I beheld a blesséd corps,

eleven smiling angels stood  there, on the other shore,

they drew the boat upon the sand and bade me follow on,

walking to a golden gate from whence the light had shone.

'Is this the Heaven I have sought?' I asked my saintly friends,

'Behold,' they said, 'Your Paradise, where Earthly sorrow ends,

you passed the final test - the river Styx need not be crossed,

one only has to fight the Fiend - and he shall not be lost.'