The Harrowing Of Heaven

      Canto I 

   Last 

Friday night, late, I slipp'd 

right off the plate, kick'd the 

bucket. I gave up the 

ghost, 

   came to 

ultimate harm, bought (and 

paid for) the farm. I (and 

let me speak frankly) was 

toast.

   Drank I 

deep from Doom's cup, beds of 

daisies push'd up, had my 

ticket punch'd, caught the last 

ride; 

     met the 

Reaper (he's grim), bit the 

Big Galbijjim, with the 

fishes slept. (Bluntly: I 

died.)

   To in-

visible choirs I ap-

pended my lyres; kick'd the 

can (sadly, not down the 

road); 

     met my 

end, popp'd my clogs; went whole-

hog! to the dogs, crossing 

o'er to no mortal a-

bode.

   Call my 

trip what you will: the Big 

Sleep, the Big Chill, that I 

pass'd to some vast other 

side, 

     cash'd in 

chips, bit the dust -- R.I.-

P.'d if you must. But, while 

nixing to shout it or 

flout it or tout it, there's 

nowt doubt about it: I 

died. 

      Canto II 

     Dapper 

Dante of yore...? He faced 

gauntlets galore. Me...? I 

can't declare I did as 

well:

     I was 

neither urn-buried nor 

quite Aligh'eri'd; 'tis 

clear I veer'd nowhere near 

Hell.

    Virgil...? 

Never turn'd up. Were I 

on my own...? Yup! (Them three

hell-creatures never show'd, 

neether. 

     BF-

B (Bonne Femme Bea)...? She, too, 

made no appea-. Lo, to 

tell you the truth (though it 

smells less than couth), their A-

WOLism 'queath'd me a 

breather. 

     Canto III

 

     (to be continued)