Many a time have I begged Charon to ferry me to hell proper,
And bribed him with a few lines from my best poems;
Yet I am still wandering in the vestibule,
‘cause I am neither Dante nor Virgil.
Half my life have I tiptoed on the shore of Acheron,
With my desire stinging me like the wasps and hornets,
And my passion sucking my blood like the maggots,
Half my life I am neither in hell nor in heaven.