Epic Simile
11/4/2014
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.
"Demons cannot read signs." Hahaha, yes.
ReplyDeleteAnd this: "The whining customer doth want his ranch." This happens to me all the time!