How Dead Industrialists Dance, or Swing Time

Their visages were more horrid than anything Alighieri or
Even Stephen King had to endure. For straight on and somewhat
Below on a Baked and Barren Plateau advanced

Commodore Vanderbilt and Jay Gould and they 
Appeared to be dancing cheek to cheek; an Improbable Tango
With the Commodore's right hand outstretched, clutching Gould's

Left, as they shuffled to meet our Crew. And when they had closed
To 60 feet 6 inches or so, I gasped to realize their Fate. For though
Their bodies were intact and clothed in Tatters that still

Hinted of the Tycoon, the Hemispheres of Their Heads had 
Merged so, that there remained but two nostrils, one Vanderbilt's and one 
Gould's forming one Awry Nose. And their Mouths were

Likewise fused and Each One's Urgent Words tore at the
Other half, building, building, building into an
Apocalyptic Wrath that could only be doused by

The Second Coming. But each Garbled Volley
Subsided like a Wave shushed by the Shore 
For as the Creature struggled to draw Breath

The Commodore and Mr. Gould wrestled to
Rake the Air into their lungs; a struggle that
Convulsed their entire Beings like Snakes

Pinned to the earth with a Pike or a Fuel Line
Under High Pressure writhing near its Source.
Each fought to steer the Foul Atmosphere into their Breast

Through the Single Portal formed by their two Mouths 
"Can they speak," I asked Mammon
As soon as I shook my swoon. "You've got

More stomach for these Horrors than had that
Washed out Florentine," glossed Forcas, slapping my Back.
"Long afternoons watching Horror Flicks and

War Movies on the Silver Screen has made me
Immune." "Ah yes, Hollywood," Smiled Mammon,
"What better Boot Camp for the Amusements of Hell."

And in this way, the Poet lied in order to wallow in this Devil's 
Fellowship. For any Citizen Like he, reaching Satiety sheds
The Compulsion to be Entertained. And comes to know

Such Exhibitions as Conscious Agents of Terror and Pain.