(Reflections of an aging but impenitent womanizer)

 

When I depart to that last rest

unless required dread fires to stoke

or groom the wings of angels blest

I'll give the Magdalene a poke.

 

The harp or lyre I cannot sound

or sing in tune to any hymn.

The Elysian Fields to wander round

but finding saints so very prim.

 

It might be hard to socialize

if for bonking, booze, and fingerfood

the inmates are all far too wise.

I'd find it dire to be so good!

 

Perhaps I'll be a sinner again

to be despatched straight down below

reach Satan's warm and cozy den

and find so many friends I know!