A room in the mansion, and things in lots of seven.
No tissues or Q-tips or diaper rash cream,
No receipts, or coupons or opposing team.
No contracts, or cataracts or strange competitions,
No alarm clocks or time cards or late submissions.
No death, no credit cards, no crap to the gills,
Just the constant of the Son on our window sills.
No tuning or warm ups, just praising and singing,
Every note in harmony ringing.
I cannot imagine what heaven will be,
From ourselves and this world we'll be free.
Pearl gates, gold roads... amps that go to eleven,
No butt-holes or bellybuttons in Heaven.
1 comment:
You realize that you have 14 lines here? Two groups of 7!!! Hah. Great stuff.
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