The police stood at the Gates of Heaven, bored.
The neighbours had complained about the mess.
In the weeds beyond there lay a rusty sword,
Not flaming, but illegal nonetheless.
D.I. Briggs arrived and gave the nod.
Keen cops pulled out the new pneumatic ram.
Briggs looked, and waved them back: the Gates of God
Were wedged open by the carcass of a lamb.
They waded through the ferns and past the shed.
The house itself was old but nothing grand.
They found God stiff and rotting in his bed,
The video remote still in his hand.
“Poor old sod,” sighed Briggs, “the third this week.”
Wearily he wrote down all the facts:
“The furniture is old, the floorboards creak,
The video machine is Betamax.”
They left the place to weeds and rotten fruit.
Nothing but the ghost of God moves there.
The fate of the estate lies in dispute:
They say there was a son, but God knows where.