This Is Hell. . CHORUS:. This is hell this is hell. I am sorry to tell you. It never gets better or worse. But you get used to it after a spell. For heaven is hell in reverse. The bruiser spun a hula hoop. As all the barmen preen and pout. The neon "i" of nightclub flickers on and off. And finally blew out. The irritating jingle. Of the belly-dancing phony Turkish girls. The eerie glare of ultra violet. Perfect dental work. CHORUS. The failed Don Juan in the big bow-tie. Is very sorry that he spoke. For he's mislaid his punch line. More than halfway through a very tasteless joke. The fré‹Ÿlein caught him peeking down her gown. He's yelling in her ear. And all at once the music stopped. As he was intimately bellowing "My dear . .". CHORUS. The shirt you wore with courage. And the violent nylon suit. Reappear upon your back. And undermine the polished line you try to shoot. It's not the torment of the flames. That finally see your flesh corrupted. It's the small humiliations that your memory piles up. This is hell this is hell this is hell.. "My Favourite Things" are playing. Again and again. But it's by Julie Andrews. And not by John Coltrane. Endless balmy breezes and perfect sunsets framed. Vintage wine for breakfast. And naked starlets floating in Champagne. All the passions of your youth. Are tranquillized and tamed. You may think it looks familiar. Though you may know it by another name. CHORUS.