There at St. Peters Gate,
A golden scale,
True to the ounce it weighs,
From little mouse to whale,
All these critters all around,
All at moments notice,
On one side of the scale be found,
Guess now, who the others is,
If your conscience like a flea,
Guess what it will fit,
Guess what you’ll than be,
When heaven’s tarmac hit,
You’ll live on other people’s blood,
And be to them a pain,
You’re also likely to be swat,
And soon be on that scale again,©
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Be always safe,
Karen
s
They don't make a hoopla for a few hundred thousand slaughtered humans but give a perfunctory lip service, what make you think that they care for a hundred thousand "lesser creatures" when they are thinking to have big pockets in their shrouds to leave with all that money?
In Heavens, you need quarters for the parking's lot?
Georg
Regis
Witty, quirky and with a touch reminiscent of Burns and Donne.
John