Epithalamion for the Marraige of Shills and Satan


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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

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heeeeeeeeee

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