O, on this winters day,
a marriage made to my dismay,
those wicked souls who like to advertise,
your ways, I criticise!
So now, meet your match,
oh, he's a perfect catch,
though he'll not work or straighten,
he's perfect, because he's Satan.
Satan himself will marry you,
down to hell, I wave adieu!
</terrible poem>
As awful as it is, it was fun to write. :-)
-Squalor
