You can't get to heaven in an old Ford Prefect,
But not 'cause the car's got a fault or a defect.
You can't get to heaven in a baked bean tin,
But not 'cause the tin's got baked beans in.
And you'll never roll to hell in a tractor-tyre,
But not 'cause the tyre gets stuck in the mire.
You'll never lose your soul in a gambling game,
But not 'cause winning wards off the flame.
This doggerel is horrible so here's an end,
And a reason my rhymes took a negative trend.
You'll never do the things I mention in that list
'cause souls and afterlives don't exist!
Ordinarily, Gentle Reader, I would not have unleashed the above mess upon your eyes. You are a refined, gentle, and cultured person (I know you are!) and do not deserve such ocular torture.
In the usual course of things, I would have played around with the idea for a while, decided it was no good, and sent it off to the recycle bin. Instead, I post if for comparative purposes. No matter how bad you think it was, Hutton's newest is worse.
I'm not, you should understand, commenting on the point he makes, which is little more than "You'll be sorry when Judgement Day comes around. Nyer nyer!" No, I'm commenting on the style, which is abysmal. Not so much fire-and-brimstone as damp-match-and-bathroom-pumice. Not so much John Calvin as Calvin Kleins with worn-out elastic and skid-marks.
Stick to handing out infantile Chick Tracts to school-kids, Bob. You'll never be a preacher.
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