Dispatches from Year One

She came riding the last squall
To say that all was well;
That she’d met with St Peter
And saved some souls from hell.

That generally she was putting things to rights;
That generally she rather feared the nights;
That sometimes she misread a pause for slights;
That back-to-back Heaven didn’t sit quite right.

She came riding the last blast
To say that something was askew;
That Peter had posed her a corker
And she’d not known what to do.

That generally her herbaceous beds were bright;
That sometimes she lay awake at night;
That at last she knew that she was right
About that bloody stupid fight.

She said she was sick of death and roses,
Of dharma bums and yogic poses.
That bloody Tibetan with his bloody bell.
Behind all perfumes a putrid smell.

That generally it wasn’t what it was cracked up to be;
There were plenty pictures but not that much to see;
That she’d rather be back and live not be
And trot that Tom upon her knee.