“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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