In service there are nine arenas for
The dashing hero to pursue. The lore
Of which derides from fire as if the nine
Circles of hell; a duplicate design.
The meal checker, a lonely post, is first
In Limbo lies an area not the worst.
To-go comes next, Lustily the hero lies,
Blown back and forth in wind so strong your cries
Cannot be heard. Escape to dish in slush
He sighs, so vile and foul and thus must rush
To Greed. In deli joust between two lines
Call back and forth. Demons cannot read signs.
What do they want, they do not know, so off
To Anger we must go. But out we cough
The swampy water. Filling station—Wrath
We feel, we gurgle. Off we flee. A path
Opens to Heresy, in flaming tombs we grill
Then switch to Violence. Stomachs we must fill.
The bistro line holds boiling blood and sand
So hot and blasphemous that we can’t stand.
The Hypocrites are next to punish, they
Who walk with listless stupor, stumble day
And night to clean the tables. Monitor
Moves next from Fraud and must reconsider
His Treachery, were he must freeze in lakes
So cold, to deal with salad and with cake.
The whining customer doth want his ranch.
This hellish place, the poet knows there’s a branch
Held out in compromise, then pulled away.The customer will not be held at bay.