Damnation could be worse, Joanna thought,
while flicking tiny needles from her nose
-- a lot of standing round in endless rows,
her fears of painful torture come to naught.
Of lakes of fire and brimstone she'd been taught,
so was a bit let down when lukewarm blows
were all that she received while mics boomed prose
that bored her without making her distraught.
In droves more sinners came in, overwrought,
anticipating flayings, severed toes,
excruciating hardships, ropes pulled taut.
But little happened. Moon went down. Sun rose.
The nightshift-demons sent home, new ones brought,
she wondered at their bloodshot eyes, their flesh-toned clothes.