When a baby dies,

It grows goose wings, and flies

Up to the iron front-door

That’s bolted to the sky.

A smooth, warm voice offers

“Come inside…”

Now, when a baby gets in,

The first thing she sees

Is an endless stretch of beautiful grassland,

Buried under 37,733,996 piles of bird feces.

The sky is black, with swarms of pigeons, And pelicans, flamingos and sparrows.

Flocks of Pteradon too.

And they all make so much noise,

She can’t hear the other baby saints

Screaming in a cacophony

Of helpless, confused squeals.

Quickly from here, the Heavenly Guard

Will escort her and the others

To their rightful places;

A lavish mansion, on a street composed of

All manner of precious stone,

Is dedicated to each baby.

See great fountains, and pools of water

Filled up with billions of tadpoles, plesiosaurs, minnows, octopi, anglerfish, mollywogs, salmon and whale sharks and trilobites.

From here, all saints may drink

And bathe.

In the fields of white that expand

And surround this grand villa…

There is every manner of ape

Imaginable and otherwise,

Every beast that has ever lived

And died. Their mothers, their cousins

All there.

And I cannot stress enough,

There is feces everywhere.

The assignment of horns and harps

Is handled swiftly, and singing lessons

Quickly impart the only word

They will need to know.

“Holy, Holy, Holy”.

Repeat.

“Holy, Holy, Holy.”

And the Keruvim will finish the verse;

“…Is the Name of The Lord…”

At this time, a great light

Will appear to engulf everything

And leave many permanently blind,

By its sudden and overwhelming flash.

There is a sound so seismic in its magnitude,

So highly removed in its source,

Like the rumbling of a volcano

If it were mumbling

Some ancient, unknowable Secret.

And all the deceased of every age,

Draped in bleached linens

Pour out from their

Mansions

And babies learn quickly

To play and to sing,

And will remain here forever…

With The King of Kings.