-Then in the end-

When I consider how heaven's been portrayed

Through the mouth of Priest, through the sweltering catechisms

Of my early indoctrination, I wonder how I’d fit-in if I made the cut.

I'd question what the surface beneath my feet is composed of;

Could be the silt of Fog Land's freshwater bed as we dug-in

With our bare feet, me and Uncle Frank, twisting for clams.

I'd search for the childhood friend

Who hung his spikes on the handlebars

Peddling fast across the infinite baselines.

Maybe they'll say my old-man's a comic m.c.

At the Galaxy Lounge a few million light years to the west;

That his hilarious intro, costumed in trench-coat and fedora,

A cigarette hanging from his mouth, the riven sales ledger pulled

From his pocket fanning his quick-blinking eyes, mimicking a young

Stripper's flirtatious routine, draws the crowd and headline's the nightly bill.

Maybe they'll tell me the cruel display of pallid flesh on his deathbed

Is slowly transforming, and a brush of color is returning to his face.

Could be I'd be somewhere else.

Could be the old-man is, too.

Could be that in the end, I'll be reminded that

Neither of us had been a subscriber in good standing.