Harry and the Fly

This was a one word story that came out of a family trip. The tune to "Way Down in Hell, Michigan" is to the tune of Don McClain's Chain Lightning, moreso than anything else.

Five times the splendid, ragged wheel of death by leeches screeched by. Five times the dreaded sunrise of squishy paste was oozing into a large fractal of sky. Five more beings exploded before noon.
The newspapers screamed their deadly screams. The television exuded all the news of devastation. In San Juan, mice reported that cats of unusual resplendancy and indeterminate size were tromping throughout upper Nova Scotia.
Harry Bloo was drinking orange martinis frequently.
"'Ello 'Arry" a fly greeted him.
"Hello fly named Al Ouch. Cursed muffins were blossoming from earmuffs yesterday. Dummy, haven't you seen enough to juxtapose devastation with peace throughout the territory?"
"Gosh no," answered Frumm, who had overheard nothing, "Every thirteen seconds I've sneezed for the fuzz. I'm through."
Suddenly, Al began sweating profusely. Al burst into song.
"Way down, in Hell, Michigan
I can't reach my designation.
Cursed muffins swat Harry's spoon,
Soon we'll hit -"
The song ended. An eery howl was cutting the heads off of the petunias underneath the floorboards. Death permeated everything.

I'm sure you'd rather see a real update by now, so I'll work on it. The last three words of the song are, by the way, "the promised land."