Ante-Purgatory (The VIP Waiting Room for Slackers)

We crawled from Hell and hit a sunny beach,
Where Cato stood, a grumpy old inspector.
He looked as though he’d give a moral speech,
But Virgil cleaned my face with some protector.
“We need to climb,” my guide began to sigh,
“But first, let’s watch these lazy souls go by.”

The shore was packed with guys who had delayed
Their whole repentance till the final minute.
They sat around in nice, refreshing shade,
As if the holy race had nothing in it.
And King Manfredi showed his battle scar,
Begging for prayers from relatives afar.

Then Belacqua, my buddy, made a face,
Curled up behind a rock to catch some sleep.
“Why rush?” he groaned, “We’re trapped inside this place,
For decades before walking up the steep.”
I laughed aloud: “You haven’t changed a bit!
Still lazy, but at least you’re clear of the pit.”

Circle I: Pride (The Heavy-Metal Backpackers)

We passed the gate where Peter’s angel sat,
And got seven ‘P’s carved right upon my brow.
The first terrace was narrow, squished, and flat,
Where haughty souls were learning how to bow.
They looked like stone-carved brackets on a wall,
Crushed down by boulders, barely fit to crawl.

The super-rich, the noble, and the proud,
Who thought the world revolved around their name,
Were crying out inside a dusty cloud,
Bending their spines in therapeutic shame.
Oderisi, the painter, gasped for air,
“My art was great, but now I do not care!”

The pavement underneath was etched with lines
Of famous falls—like Lucifer and Troy.
The snobs were treading on their own designs,
With every ounce of ego to destroy.
An angel flapped his wing, and just like that,
One ‘P’ was gone, and I felt less of a flat.

Circle II: Envy (The Blind Men’s Choir)

The second shelf was gray and strictly bare,
No pretty carvings for the tourist’s eye.
A dreadful iron howling filled the air,
As ghost-like voices floated through the sky,
Singing of charity and giving things—
The kind of stuff that generosity brings.

The envious sat leaning in a row,
Dressed up in itchy, coarse, and filthy sacks.
They looked like beggars waiting for the show,
Propped up against the cliff-side on their backs.
Their eyelids were sewn shut with iron wire,
To cure them of their visual desire.

Sapia spoke, a lady full of spite,
Who cheered to see her town-folk lose a fight.
“I’m not a wise woman, though named so,” she cried,
“Now I am blind and weeping for my pride.”
We walked right past, avoiding any touch,
Lest heavy wires pinch my eyes too much.

Circle III: Wrath (The Smokey BBQ Extinction)

The third apartment was a total black,
A thick, bad fog that tasted like an old cigar.
It rolled around and hit us on the track,
Blinding our vision, whether near or far.
I couldn’t see my fingers or my guide,
So I clutched Virgil’s jacket by his side.

The angry souls were wandering in the reek,
Chanting for peace and lamb-like gentle grace.
For all the times they chose to yell and shriek,
They got a kitchen-fire in their face.
Marco Lombardo stepped out from the cloud,
And gave a lecture, scholarly and loud.

He blamed the bad society and popes
For screwing up the planet and our hopes.
“The free will lives!” he shouted through the smog,
“So stop complaining like a barking dog.”
The mist began to clear to yellow bright,
And one more ‘P’ was melted in the light.

Circle IV: Sloth (The Midnight Marathon)

The fourth terrace was dead-center in the hill,
Where love was treated like a broken spring.
The souls who used to sit completely still
Were forced to do a terrifying thing:
They ran in circles at a frantic pace,
Like crazy jocks inside a midnight race.

No sitting down, no pauses for a snack,
The lazy guys were sprinting like a deer!
Two leaders shouted from the front of the pack,
Recounting tales of zeal and holy cheer.
While two at the back were screaming out in dread
Of those who missed the promised land and bed.

“Hurry up! Hurry up! Don’t waste the time!”
The chorus roared, all sweating from the climb.
I felt a little sleepy from the view,
And took a nap while Virgil watched the crew.
I dreamed of sirens with a fishy tail,
Until my guide unmasked her rotten veil.

Circle V: Greed (The Face-Plant Association)

We woke up on the fifth and gloomy floor,
Where people lay face-down upon the mud.
They clutched the gravel, weeping for their store,
Without a single spark of lively blood.
“My soul cleaveth unto the dust!” they wept,
As if the floor was where their gold was kept.

The greedy popes and kings who loved the buck
Were pinned down flat, unable to arise.
For all the wealth they managed to construct,
They got a face-full of the dirt and flies.
Hugh Capet started shouting from his space,
Insulting his own royal, thieving race.

Then suddenly the mountain started shaking,
Like a giant earthquake or a boiler breaking!
The souls all shouted out a holy song,
And I stood freezing, thinking things were wrong.
’Twas just a soul completing his long stay:
The poet Statius, joining our highway.

Circle VI: Gluttony (The Weight-Watchers Diet)

The sixth terrace possessed a lovely tree,
Loaded with shiny apples, smelling sweet.
A clear cascade was falling, wild and free,
But voices from the leaves cried: “Do not eat!
Remember Eve! Remember all the beasts
Who ruined empires with their greedy feasts!”

The gluttons walked around the tree in lines,
Looking like skeletons from horror shows.
Their eyes were sunken deep inside their shrines,
And skin was tightly wrapped around their toes.
Forese, my old drinking buddy, cried,
“Hey Dante! Look how much my stomach died!”

They sniffed the fruit but couldn’t take a bite,
Which kept them skinny, hollow-cheeked, and light.
“My wife’s good prayers saved me from the low,”
He said, while pointing to his rib-cage show.
An angel wiped another ‘P’ away,
And we moved upward to the final tray.

Circle VII: Lust (The Flaming Speed-Dating)

The final shelf was blasting with a wall
Of roaring fire, shooting from the cliff.
The path was narrow, practically small,
And I was walking terrified and stiff.
Inside the flames, two groups of spirits ran,
Kissing each other briefly, maid and man.

The lustful souls were boiling in the heat,
Shouting out famous checks on modest lives.
One side was Sodom, running down the street,
The other Gomorrah, leaving husbands, wives.
Guido Guinizzelli popped his head
From out the coals, to check on what I said.

“To reach the top,” said Virg, “you must go through—
Beatrice is waiting right behind the spark!”
I whimpered, but I jumped into the stew,
Which roasted me completely in the dark.
We made it out, the final ‘P’ was gone,
And we stood waiting for the garden dawn.

The Earthly Paradise (The Changing of the Guards)

We reached the top, a forest green and grand,
Where lovely Matelda was picking flowers.
A giant pageant marched across the land,
With seven candlesticks and mystic powers.
A griffin pulled a chariot of gold,
And there she stood, majestic to behold!

Beatrice unveiled her face and looked real mad:
“So, Dante, you forgot me for a bit?
You chased some other girls and that is bad!”
I started crying like a little chit.
They dunked me in the river to forget,
And washed away my sins and all regret.

Old Virgil slipped away without a sound,
Back to his Limbo lounge of quiet sighs.
While I was lifted from the muddy ground,
Purged, shiny, polished, ready for the skies.
Next stop is Heaven, where the stars align—
Let’s see if holy comedy stays divine!