After I cried, after the millionth time
I died,
The slime, the sloth, the sinking
ground
Of hell, or hate, opened its chaps,
And took me in for a ride.
No, am no Dante, or even a Joyce,
As my learned colleague said (who
Wrote a paper with unholy poise),
That afterlife is a bucket of crap.
And gee, how true was she !
I found for one how close it was,
The rivers of blood, the storms of
lust,
All swirl within the men of dust.
