What Happens To The Really Bad Poets
P Patti Masterman
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I wonder how Hell welcomes it’s own?
Are you first conducted to Purgatory,
Where you are steamed, massaged, and given
Pedicures and manicures and a new wardrobe-
Tailor- fitted, strongly constructed
Of the finest asbestos to last you
For the eons in which you will be inhabiting
The fire- and- brimstone quarter of the firmament.
Is there a grinning fiend who ushers you through
The majestic, not-so- triumphal Arch of Hades
And hands you a real skeleton key to the city?
Are you hoisted onto the shoulders of a troupe
Of imposing, masked beings in tophats, and carried along
To the sounds of tortured muscial instruments,
To the city square, where your name is lit up
On a large marquee, lights flashing, and a long line forms;
The abominations suspended long enough for
Everyone eager to shake your hand in person
As the newest acquisition to the Underworld.
Then you get to choose from Door #1, #2, and such?
I rather think it is not that way, and further,
If being a bad poet is reason enough to land in hell,
I am sure I am on a long, long waiting list.
But...I’ve still got some time to kill.
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