Fixing the 'Ferno, yo

THE INFERNO, by Dante Alighieri Canto XXXV, Circle Ten: Boring People My Guide, before we left, spoke once again       And said, "There is one more abode of damned,       The last of the rings, the circle of ten."        And so he showed me down some darkened stairs       Down Satan's ass, I think he had the runs       I smelléd his hellish colonic airs.        My eyes had not adjusted to the light       For much did shine, quite oddly, from the roof,       So then my Master spoke of these men's plight        "These souls, in contrast to the rest you've seen       Have different karmic debts to pay,       And boredom plagues their nasty souls unclean."        When last my eyes could focus on the place       I saw the sins that earned this as their home.       My blood ran cold and left a pallored face.        A meeting room this was, of light-ish beige,       Which housed a meeting table of sorts,       And it proved a most befitting stage.        "In life these miscreants would talk a score       On subjects that ranged from mundane to dull,       Pontificating soporific bore."        I could not speak, and Virgil carried on,       "They wasted time and air and their resources       To make the shortest phrases so deadly long.        They managed boards, and groups, and clubs, and teams       Reporting on their fiscal revenue,       With charts and graphs and paper by the reams.        Because of these, their deadly sins, they must       Be audience to palling books on tape       So they might see why they were unjust."        As if on cue, right as he stopped, began       A voice I'd heard somewhere before.       It was Ben Stein, whose voice could kill a man. "When I wrote the following pages,"       Began that weary voice of mundane doom,       Lashing the minds of those Tedium Sages.        It was the timeless work by old Thoreau,       Entitled Walden, my ignorant friends.       I envy those of you who do not know.        To add to this unending, Hellish pain       The victims had to wear those business suits       They made US wear when hearing their stain.        "I should'nt obtrude my affairs so much," he spoke       Continuing this torture of the damned.       I yearned for that record player I broke.        I looked at the souls and identified       A few you might expect to see.       But one I saw and nearly myself died.        "Oh, Plato, what have you done to earn       This worst of punishments to face?       You wrote, and made so many people learn!" He turned his head, and looked, and smiled.       "You must have never read my work,       The book Republic sealed my fate, young child.        But, as with Cocytus, you know       How souls will go there premortem?" he asked.       "Young Dante, no further will you go."        I nearly believed this trite of he       And turned to Virgil, Reasoner of Man.       Alas, his presence ceased to side with me.        I heard his voice, and so he said       "Dante, you grub, this is your fate!       This was all a ruse, for you are dead!"        I should have noticed this before, I think,       Since the meter's been off for quite a while,       And that usually signals that something is wrong.        And there at the table I sat, Wearing a suit and a hat       They were made of cotton       I felt itchy and rotten And that was the end of that.

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