The Pyromaniac
A good girl, I was--Sundays; I sang in the choir--
But the rest of the week, liked to play with fire,
Ruining fine woods; yet not did I worry:
I knew I just had to say
Each morning, Sunday:
“Sorry!”....
I liked to play in men’s hearts--always planting a wood,
Fertile trees, fair roses--’till a paradise stood,
Starting flames, then; Always I’d scurry,
Yet I thought it all okay,
Since I’d beg (though I’d play):
“Sorry!”....
On such things, since a child, I’ve always been bred....
Then--one time, not dying, the fire did spread!--
And, though I tried so to flee, the woods proved too vast--
The flames grew much larger--closing in fast--
Then--in last act of purgatory
With my last breath I did pray,
As the flames did me slay,:
“Sorry!”....
Then St. Peter did meet me, at heaven’s lovely door,
And I questioned him;” Well, what are you waiting for?....
Grab your key, old man, and do hurry!....
While it’s true that I did sin
You must now let me in!....”
Then he said, with a grin:
“Sorry!”....
Thus I am now rewarded for my many a crime--
I get to play with fire until the end of time!--
And relate to all what I have learned:
It is not at all much wise,
Even if you apologize,
To play with fire--since you’ll always be (Ow!) Burned.
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