Circle I: Limbo (The VIP Lounge for Intellectuals)

I hit a mid-life crisis in a wood,
Which wasn’t great for my poetic brand.
My moral compass broke down where I stood,
Till Virgil showed up, rental guide in hand.
“Let’s check out Hell,” he purred, “I know the way—
It’s much more lively than a holy day.”

We crossed the river on a rickety barge,
And reached the circle for the unbaptized.
No screaming here, no demons on the charge,
Just lots of high-brows looking victimized.
They didn’t sin, they just forgot the font,
So now they languish in eternal want.

It looked exactly like a snobby club:
Old Homer, Plato, Caesar in his cloak,
Discussing physics near a ghostly shrub,
Without a single glass of rum-and-coke.
“They’re sad,” said Virg, “because they can’t go higher.”
I shrugged, “At least they saved on bottled fire.”

Circle II: Lust (The Ultimate Laundry Cycle)

We skipped on down to reach the second shelf,
Where judge-boy Minos sat and growled a bunch.
He wraps his scaly tail around himself
To tell each sinner where they’ll eat their lunch.
“You coiled five times!” a bad guy tried to plea,
“That means it’s Circle Five, my friend, for thee!”

The air was roaring like a hurricane,
Full of romantic types who lost their wits.
They flew in circles through the stormy rain,
Like feathers blasted from a thousand tits.
They let their gushy feelings rule their head,
So now they’re spinning like a loaf of bread.

Francesca floated by and started crying,
“A book about Sir Lancelot made us do it!
My husband caught us kissing and complying,
He poked us with a sword and then we knew it.”
The story was so tragic and intense,
I fainted flat—to save on common sense.

Circle III: Gluttony (The Five-Star Mud Bath)

The third apartment was a total dump,
A soggy mess of garbage, slush, and hail.
It smelled exactly like a rotten stump,
Or leftover lasagna in a pail.
And Cerberus, the oversized mutt,
Was barking from three muzzles in the rut.

The gluttons lay like hotdogs in the muck,
Marinating in a soup of stinking rain.
For all the fancy pies they used to tuck,
They got a heavy dose of canine pain.
One soggy Florentine uprighted his torso,
“It’s Ciacco! Used to know you, Dante, or so.”

He gave a speech on local politics—
Who’s up, who’s down, who’s getting kicked from town—
Then did a couple of his old-time tricks
And dropped back face-first to the mud to drown.
“A waste of good meat,” Virgil gave a sigh,
And stepped right over him without a “bye.”

Circle IV: Greed (The Heavy Metal Gym)

Old Plutus clutched his wallet, screaming gibberish,
But Virgil told him, “Pipe down, moneybags!”
We found a crowd quite hostile and belligerent,
Dressed up in gold-embroidered, filthy rags.
They ran in semi-circles on the floor,
Engaged in one gigantic tug-of-war.

The spendthrifts and the hoarders pushed vast boulders,
Using their chests like trucks upon a hill.
They crashed together, bumping sweaty shoulders,
And screamed insults with absolute free will.
“Why do you keep it?” roared the frantic spenders;
“Why do you blow it?” shrieked the money-lenders.

I saw a bunch of shaven-headed blokes—
“Hey, Virg, are those some popes down in the dirt?”
“Oh yeah,” he laughed, “the church’s finest jokes,
Who sold salvation for a fancy shirt.
They loved the coin, but now they lift the weights,
The cheapest labor inside Pluto’s gates.”

Circle V: Wrath (The Swampy WWE)

We reached the Styx, a nasty, bubbling bog,
Where angry spirits played a game of tag.
They fought naked inside the stinking fog,
And tore each other up without a brag.
They used their fists, their elbows, and their teeth,
While lazy, sullen sinners choked underneath.

The sullen ones just gurgled from the bottom,
“We were so sad while walking in the sun!”
Well, now they’re stuck where nobody forgot ’em,
Sucking on slime until the world is done.
Then Filippo Argenti, my old neighbor,
Swam up to give our rowboat some hard labor.

He tried to capsize us with crazy eyes;
I yelled, “Hey Virgil, punch him in the snout!”
My guide agreed, to Argenti’s surprise,
And pushed him back into the muddy rout.
The other sinners tore him like a rag—
I cheered aloud and waved my tourist flag.

Circle VI: Heresy (The Overheated B&B)

The rebel angels tried to lock the gate,
But heaven sent a bureaucrat to clear ’em.
We entered Dis, a city full of hate,
With architecture designed to scare ’em.
The ground was like a graveyard out of bounds,
With burning iron boxes on the grounds.

The heretics who said the soul just dies
Were stuffed inside these ovens, fully baked.
The lids were off, emitting smoky sighs,
As every single sizzled sinner ached.
Then Farinata popped up from his grill,
Looking like he could use a sleeping pill.

He asked about my granddad, full of snobbery,
Then argued politics while cooking slow.
Another ghost popped up to start a bobbery,
Asking why his own son was not in tow.
I said, “He’s busy,” and the poor guy fainted,
Back to the microwave where he was painted.

Circle VII: Violence (The Blood-Soup and the Shrubbery)

The seventh circle had three separate zones:
First was a river made of boiling blood,
Where tyrants, thugs, and kings made awful moans,
While centaurs shot ’em if they left the mud.
“Look, Alexander’s swimming in the stew!”
Said Virg, “He’s overcooked, and so are you.”

Next was a forest made of creepy trees—
The suicides who threw their lives away.
You snap a twig, and blood begins to wheeze,
Along with words about their final day.
The Harpies nested in the dusty leaves,
Giving the wood a bad case of the heaves.

The third zone was a beach of burning sand,
Where flaming snowflakes fell upon the crew.
The blasphemers lay crying on the land,
While gay accountants ran around in view.
My old schoolteacher walked by, looking toasted—
I waved politely while his feet were roasted.

Circle VIII: Fraud (The Ten-Flavored Fiesta)

We rode a monster down a rocky ridge,
To Malebolge—Fraud’s own theme-park ditch.
Ten trenches deep, connected by a bridge,
Where every con-man found his custom niche.
The panderers were whipped by horned gorillas,
While flatterers drowned in liquid sarsaparillas.

The simonists were planted upside down,
Their feet on fire like a birthday candle.
The fortune-tellers walked around the town
With heads turned backwards—what a tragic scandal!
The grafters boiled in pitch like greasy bacon,
While hypocrites wore lead cloaks, quite forsaken.

The thieves were turning into lizards fast,
And sly Odysseus burned inside a wick.
The schismatics were split from first to last,
And alchemists were scratching scabs real quick.
It was a circus of absurd deceit,
Where every single cheater met defeat.

Circle IX: Treachery (The Giant Ice-Tray)

The bottom floor was freezing, like a fridge,
Where giants stood around like ice-cream cones.
The traitors lay trapped underneath the bridge,
Frozen in ice right down to their old bones.
They looked like peas inside a frozen pack,
With icy tears cementing every crack.

Count Ugolino was chewing on a skull,
Like a bad dog with an old soup bone.
He paused to tell a story rather dull
About his kids, then went back to his groan.
“It’s cold,” I whimpered, clutching at my coat,
While Virgil pointed to a giant boat.

’Twas Lucifer, a three-faced, giant dope,
Fixed in the ice and crying like a baby.
His six big wings were flapping without hope,
Making a breeze that gave us chills (and rabies).
He chewed on Judas, Brutus, and the rest,
Like three pink worms inside a robin’s nest.

× × ×

We climbed his hairy legs to catch our flight,
And slid right out to see the stars so bright.