I was writing my memoirs, my life

when my death occurred,

the dark angels brought me

to this place of fallen angels

where I must stoke

the fires of hell for

eternity.

 

I cry

not from the infernal pain

of my burning flesh

but for my writing,

lost to humanity forever, for

amongst these burning souls

there is none to rescue me.

 

Gabriel my old archangel friend

is busy with that old whore Magdalena,

Saddam as come to join us

he's playing wargames with

Adolph and Josef,

but no one will speak to

Pol Pot, except

me of course.

 

For now we are good friends

Pol and I,

we often talk about new idea's

for genocide,

but our plans for the future

are like the mist on the Somme,

memories of slaughtered millions,

eternal

but not of this world.

 

And I,

I will be forgotten.