It is frigging cold in the heaven

A poetess wonders about a mountaineer
Climbing high up on Mount Vinson
In the freaking colds of Antarctica.

She is a religious poetess.
Often she talks of spirits,
Son of God and God.

So she wonders
When he reaches the summit,
How can he not miss God!

Her God is up in the heaven
Up, up in the skies
And her hell is down,
Down, below the ground.

Mount Vinson stands
Sixteen thousand feet high.
Does her heaven begin there?

If it is frigging cold in the heaven
And pits of fires in the Milton’s hell,
I would rather stay on Earth here.