Poor Guessing

by Ermon Miland Peck

St. Peter stood, forbidding, stern,
Within the Pearly Gate,
And eyed a spirit. Come to learn
The depth and breadth of fate.
“You owned some flivvers,
did you not?”
The Saint’s first question sped.
“I did. Your Saintship! Quite a lot!”
The spirit meekly said.
“And when you got a
punctured tire,”
St. Peter then pursued,
“Or sixteen bills aroused your ire
For policies renewed;
When road-hogs threw a
sudden fright,
Or coil-points got all wet,
Or headlights dazzled you at night.
Or herds of cows were met;
When carbon made you lose power,
Cold weather made you crank;
Or wifie let you wait an hour,
Or gas had left your tank;
When you were caught twelve miles from home,
No top, and pouring rain,
And surging thoughts besieged
your dome,
Were you at all profane?”
“O Saint, I pray I’ll make you see
That I’ve not been a dunce!
When things you’ve said all
 came to me,
I never cussed them once!”
Said Peter, “Where you got
your code
Of morals I don’t know!
Your far too dumb for this abode!
They’ll use you down below!”