Cigars are evil, you won't miss 'em.
We'll find ways to simulate that smell.
What a sorry fella, rolled up and smoked like a panatella.
Here on level one of Robot Hell.
Gambling's wrong and so is cheating,
so is forging phony IOU's.
Let's let lady luck decide
what type of torture's justified.
I'm pit boss here on level two.
Ooh! Deep-fryed robot!
Bender: Just tell me why.
Beelzebot: Please read this fifty-five page warrant.
Bender: There must be robots worse than I.
Beelzebot: We checked around, there really aren't.
Bender: Then please let me explain;
My crimes were merely boyish pranks.
Beelzebot: You stole from boy scouts, nuns, and banks!
Bender: Aw, don't blame me, blame my upbringing.
Beelzebot: Please stop sinning while I'm singing!
Beelzebot: Selling bootleg tapes is wrong.
Musicians need that income to survive.
Beastie Boys: Hey Bender gonna make some noise
With your hard drive scratched by the Beastie Boys.
That's whatcha, whatcha, whatcha get on level five.
Fry: I don't feel well.
Leela: It's up to us to rescue him.
Fry: Maybe he likes it here in hell.
Leela: It's us who tempted him to sin.
Fry: Maybe he's back at the motel.
Leela: Come on Fry, don't be scared,
I'm sure at least one of us will be spared.
So just sit back, enjoy the ride.
Fry: My ass has blisters from the slide.
Beelzebot: Fencing diamonds, fixing cockfights,
Publishing indecent magazines.
You'll pay for every crime,
Knee-deep in electric slime.
You'll suffer 'till the end of time,
Enduring tortures, most of which rhyme.
Trapped forever here in Robot Hell!