Saturday, 2 January 2016

Preachin' ain't reachin' by Grant Harbison

“The preachin’ ain’t reachin’!” cried St. Peter as he made me wait at the pearly gate.
I wasn’t sure what he meant
This large and somewhat eccentric gent
And who would’ve guessed that he’d have a Southern accent
He was loud like an Evangelist minister
And my guess was that he could be equally sinister
He pointed to a book and began to sneer. “Ah’ve been through the book, boy. Your name ain’t here.”
It was then that my patience wore a little thin. “Hey Peter, are you going to let me in?”
“Ah can’t let you in if your name ain’t within. It looks like you’ve committed the unpardonable sin.”
“What did I do that was so wrong?”
“You were told many times but remained headstrong.”
“But I lived a good life. I made the most.”
“Facebook made you well aware of what would happen if you didn’t share. You failed to repost and the punishment is Hell where you’ll eternally roast.”
“But I always meant to do it later.”
“It’s too late now, boy. It’s the down elevator.”
“Please, there must be a way that I can make amends.”
Peter shook his head. “You should have listened to your Facebook friends.”
“No! Surely life wasn’t just about this?”
“Yes, and now you’re being denied Heavenly bliss.”
“Oh, how I wish I was still alive!”
“Go to the elevator door, boy. It’s about to arrive.” 

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