When I sat up in the clouds,

all by my lonesome self

I thought so hard of a magical place;

a little town called Hell.

The sky was red like tempered wine,

and every season that I spun

'twas surely quite divine.

There lay a bridge atop a ridge,

glistening in bloody fizz

Where fire-spouts and dying shouts

paved the way for murder-routes.

Each and every daemon was part of

the brewing congregation

And out of each little house they scurried,

for a'blood-spillin' they were going.

There was a man in the migration

eyes, little nooks of temptation

His skin was soaked black leather,

and oozed throughout the nether.

Inside the scalding cauldron,

faeries danced and children pranced

They were stirred quite meticulously

by a stubby man with no pants.

This burg, at a single glance,

might seem a terrible place to see

But the residents all assured me

with some gauge of glee...

That this little town of Hell

is the only place to be!