in hell
things won't
be so nice.
everything will
taste like
chicken.
there will be fire,
there will
be ice.
you'll have a scratch
you can't itch.
your mother in
law will be there
with a rolling pin,
and the coffee
will be cold,
the biscuits stale,
your shoes
won't fit right,
nor your clothes,
not to mention
that the overhead
music will be
a steady stream
of either rap,
or disco,
or barry manilow.
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