Unusually now, I did not smell a rat,
When the wife made a cheesecake for me,
Though hindsight will show it’s implausible that
She’d put herself out for my tea.
But the call of my belly diminished my brain
And I took a large mouthful with relish.
But ten seconds later, I got a sharp pain,
The burning sensation was hellish.
I fell to the floor in a mad crumpled heap,
My wife giving words of assurance,
And as I succumbed to the long, final sleep,
I saw her produce my insurance.
Up, up and away, I was flying through space,
Through a sparkling and glittering funnel,
And I felt myself enter a calm state of grace,
As I came to the end of the tunnel.
And as I emerged in the warm, balmy night,
I whispered, “Oh, Lord Jesus love me!”
Four floodlights emitting a clear, blinding light,
A stadium towering above me.
I pushed through the turnstile [of course, without paying],
And with tiny, nude cherubs to guide me,
I found my seat waiting, and whispered, “Who’s playing?”
To the nervous young angel beside me.
“Hell versus Christians,” my neighbour replied,
“The Here-ever-after Cup Final.
Now if you’ll excuse me,” he breathlessly sighed,
“I must go and find a urinal.”
Jesus was saving, to no-one’s surprise,
His catching was manna from heaven,
And sweet Joan of Arc, with a fire in her eyes,
Was sporting a big number seven.
Dracula, playing as goalie for Hell,
Appeared to be frightened of crosses,
Goliath, defending, was playing quite well,
He really was such a colossus.
The Bloody Red Baron, he gave a cruel laugh,
As he won everything in the air,
The Christians were struggling to get out their half,
And Samson was losing his hair.
Brother Ignatius, a small Trappist monk,
Was quietly taking control,
He was marking a blind and malevolent punk,
Who couldn’t get a sight of the goal.
Hannibal Lecter was skinning St. Mark,
And threading it through to Attila.
King Herod was ruling all over the park,
Although his first touch was a killer.
Then all of a sudden, St. Vincent de Paul
Fed St. Percy the Constantly Starving,
And he bypassed the whole Hell defence with a ball,
Through which Padre Pio was carving.
Dracula flew out to gather the ball,
The padre got there just before him,
And though the great vampire was seven foot tall,
Somehow, the football bounced o’er him.
There came a great roar that would startle the deaf,
You might say that all Hell broke loose,
All Satan’s disciples surrounded the ref
And gave him unholy abuse.
The Padre’s stigmata was starting to bleed,
But he put on an innocent air.
“The Hand of God, ref,” the linesman decreed,
And Medusa fixed him with a stare.
And then Ghengis Khan unsheathed his great sword,
And lashed off St. Bernadette’s head,
And he bowed to his master, the dreaded Dark Lord,
As the referee gave him a red.
The ref had no option, he blew the game up,
As both of the teams started fighting.
Alone on its plinth shone the bright, golden Cup,
Glinting beneath the floodlighting.
“Replay tomorrow,” said the youth at my side,
“I hope you’ll be able to make it.
There’s murmurings as to the way that you died.
Say, how did you manage to fake it?”
I stared at him blankly, and then came a roar,
And my overweight body went twirling,
And I landed back dully on our kitchen floor,
My senses cavorting and swirling.
And as I stirred slowly and opened my eyes,
Still stunned at the strange situation,
My darling wife’s face showed enormous surprise,
And she bit on her lip with frustration.
“I’m back,” I intoned, in a short, painful way,
[The back of my throat still felt burny.]
“I’ve been on a voyage to a place far away,
But now I am back from my journey.
‘There’s good news and bad news I have to convey.
Yes, news of great joy and great sorrow.
The good is – there’s football in heaven today.
The bad news – you’re playing tomorrow.”