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
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
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
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”.
“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
And babies learn quickly
To play and to sing,
And will remain here forever…
With The King of Kings.