Challenge
Challenge of the Week CCVI
You've found yourself standing at the gates of Hell, and you're given a typewriter and one page waiting in it. You have one short poem to either keep you out, or shove you in.
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In which the deceased confronts several semesters of skipped literary composition courses.
There once was this guy named Ryan.
He never did murder. Or lyin'.
He went to Mass that time,
And he... paid his parking fines,
And I coulda stole that meth but was buy--
OK, fine. Fuck it. The sulphur pit's down the hall to the left?