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

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

Now the people cry and the people moan
And they look for a dry place to call their home
And try to find some place to rest their bones
While the angels and the devils
Try to make 'em their own