by Nick Gisburne
The halls of Hell are locked to sinners, sealed.
The gates which guard Eternity are not.
The damned, their crimes successfully appealed,
Are psyched to shower somewhere not so hot.
Indecent demons sizzle on the ice,
Their passion pokers shrinking, shrivelled, cold,
While minor monsters check the small print, twice,
Before they start to steal Jehovah’s gold.
The occupying angels are upset,
Their whiteness stained by heathen shades of red,
But Jesus warns, “You ain’t seen nothing yet,
Until you’ve had the Devil in your bed.”
The beard, the boss, the magic man upstairs,
Is done with it, and simply sighs, “Who cares?”
