Last night I went to bed at eleven
And dreamed I went to Poetry Heaven.
Keeper of the Gate was not Saint Peter
But Robert Frost - - hey, what could be sweeter?
The first person I saw up there
was sitting in a golden chair.
It was my good friend, Hank Beuning,
And a golden guitar he was tuning.
Hank, I said, I've known you for years.
Saturday, January 31, 2015
Topic(s) of this poem: humor