Greg’s Grandmother Writes Affectingly Concerning Her Life in Death
I find I like Heaven, the verbs have no tenses;
The neighbours are friendly; not high or almighty.
The neighbours are charming, and we don’t need fences.
They practice mixed farming; their cattle are tidy.
I find I like Heaven more than all other places,
Though I guess that in Heaven you feel that you have to.
The angels are blonde; there are no other races.
It’s been misheard on Earth: it’s all Swede hereafter.
I tell you, in Heaven, we all talk politely,
And everyone counts, and we all have a say.
Here, nakeder angels don’t seem so unsightly;
You get used to a lot in perpetual day.
I find that in Heaven a dollar goes farther;
That prices are stable when supply meets demand;
That you’re able to plan and keep up the larder;
Where nothing goes bad, you’ve more fresh fruit than canned.
It’s true that my Father’s house has many mansions,
Though plumbing in Heaven is not that abundant.
I don’t think we need it, or nobody mentions;
Here we’ve all we want, but there’s nothing redundant.
There are luncheons in Heaven, but no heavy cooking,
Just cute little sandwiches and angel food cake.
I recommend Heaven; why not make a booking?
There’s no need of packing; there’s nothing to take.
Don Ives
October 15, 1952 - January 19, 2004
