A cloying, noxious
green mist rose from the depths of
the hole in the floor,
Its crawling vapors
Menacingly traversing
The chthonic distance,
For eons, seeking
Any small crack or fissure
That would give it a(n)
purchase in our world.
The Professor stared, transfixed,
then his eyes melted.
His brain soon followed,
making a mindless minion
fit to serve the Nine.
“Christ’s sake, Professor!
What the Hell’s happened to you?”
Patrick wailed as the
House shook and his grip
On the rod nearly faltered.
“‘Hell’ has happened” said
The remainder of
The man once known as Smyth-White,
Though 'twas not his voice.
This transformation
Of his erstwhile mentor sent
Shudders through Patrick’s
Irritable bowels.
He was glad he’d decided
To wear his brown pants.
“Don’t be throwing those
brown slacks down here,” Demon One
hollered from the depths
of stygian night;
“for we demons don’t like poo
any more than you!”
“Poetry is not
allowed in Hell! Beauty is
anathema here!”
quoth Satan himself,
spreading wide his balrog-wings
over Demon One
who cowered below.
The fell host rose as if one,
the Abyss emptied,
and a dark army
ventured forth to enslave all!
But Patrick stood firm.
Pantless, yes, but firm.
The demon horde ridiculed
his scrawny legs as
He said “This has gone
A direction that fails to
Resonate with me.”
Patrick felt himself
becoming insubstantial.
The story’s over?
Absolutely not -
we haven’t even discussed
Patrick’s great secret!