The Roofer's Final Job. Poem by Michael Gale

A bus hath by to pick me up, in reality, and as in spirit...
Had i been deaf, I'd be run over and in ill health, I'd not have heard it.

Heard it, or herd it by cows painted in war paint and well adorned, be they...
Be they, en route to a party of five, that hunger filled day.

Ate, on the hoof...
Is a whole lot safer than be a roofer, dining out, upon a roof.

Had he have would have fallen...
Then he'd for sure be pained and a-bawl-in'.

For for sure, the hammer would have been released to the side, or top of his head...
Where at night fall, he'd surely been laying injured, or not till morning, he all night would have remained lain dead.

At the tips of his boot...
Would they be pointing high up into the sky, he'd have died, and
no one that knew he, would care or give a hoot.

Oh shoot! , he'd been better off to be shot...
Then the poor old roofer would have something to be pleased for, that he'd got.

Not a whole Hell of a lot....
At least he did not get shot.

He fell to Earth, blessed by God...
No more human, no more Earth-bound bod'.

God gave the eternal nod...
Below, he be buried, beneath the sod.

No prayers of his was ans'ed...
No final, exiting dance he'd be able to pranced.

Up, and through the Pearly Gates...
Was he admitted, Heaven's Holy, Real Estates.