Jimmy Riddle's Hellish Comedy

Now that I reflect on my cleansing essence which this mirror doth reflect.
My spirits succumb to the temple of comfort , crumbling down of my weary aspect.

The chariot heaving towards paradise maliced only by the fallen spawn of Satan.
The abomination lay within me, so much so that without doubt I hath reached no point of return.

The demi-gods weeped for the mortal who hath been crafted in the smithee of divine.
The horrors were in the gasps from the realm of holy form, as the poison drop fell in the shape of number nine.

Neither By norm, nor by design this valeck's fury hath burned to burthen his brute force upon my brethren.
I chanted, I prayed, I begged and swayed the pendulum in clockwork reverse- to converse, with the dead faith.

In the brutal parade upon Aristotle's thought, what man can lay ? What man can sort? In the puddle of rot?
I hath not read the holy verse for the curse spread upon me was much to worse to face- first.
So drowned was I in the middle of my muddle that I spake not of the muzzle on the mouth of the man from gobble-hurst.
The chariot-wheeler put a stop. The brakes broken on the trot.

Look!

Look, Look!
What is there in the bare-smitten spectacle in the midst of the Brooke!

The waterfall collapsing to the infinite loop- the rhapsody so pure that the crook-ed man swooped back his poison to his poison phial.

Benign of courage his melting cover runs past the hunting-shack into the vile fun of cavemen and the sun.