It is sensibly boring in Hell.
And it’s even more boring in French.
Ah, mon ami, the tales I could tell
If you’d only get rid of that wench.
I feel that would be very well.
You could then take a seat on the bench.

But you can’t have a seat on this bench
Although it’s a fine one for Hell.
And I think you deserve it but, well,
I think it’s reserved for the French.
Or, at least, reserved for that wench
Whose name I wish I could tell

If she were just there I could tell
(I mean actually there on the bench).
If she actually were really a wench.
But, I guess, because this is Hell
She is quite decidedly French
And seems to be doing quite well.

If her name were Simone, very well,
I’m sure that I might make her tell.
I would gently ask her in French
To kindly exit that bench.
But there is No Exit in Hell.
So we can’t get rid of that wench.

But that wench perhaps isn’t a wench!
I can’t say that wouldn’t be well,
For, you know, all existence is Hell
And who knows if that is a bench?
But you know I would certainly tell
And I would love to do it in French.

For it’s awfully boring in French
And would be boring as hell for that wench.
And I’m sure she could certainly tell
And refuse to move from that bench.
Which I think would do really quite well
To prove the existence of Hell.

For a wench on a bench
In French can tell
That she is in Hell and doing quite well.