Pearly Gates

Good morning, don't look so puzzled, I'm the honorable reporter of the court of the saint called Peter, and the truth shall not be muzzled. You've heard of how when one of you dies your case is forwarded to us, twelve good citizens, a judge and me so to God's face you won't have to tell your lies. Now hush, don't make a sound, we have evidence against you, and if just half is true I fear it's to hell you're bound. Our sources are the best, impeccable, one might say, so unleash your team of barristers, we're sure to be up to the test. Santa has turned over his list of who was good as a child, and after careful scrutiny, your name we seem to have missed. And when you were alive did you feel you were shadowed, every move filmed and recorded, well, you were by MI5. Don't feel so bad, grifters, philanderers, and politicians, you escaped justice when you lived, but now dead you've been had. It's too late to replay your hand, but inform those who come after, the lies they tell like set in stone in heaven's court are but shifting sand.

Bluejay

Veteran of old My Poetry Forum before its hiatus. Happy to be back.

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