A few years back, folks noticed me,
smiled and wished my friends to be;
now where I go, it seems today
they sometimes look the other way.
Yes, my friend, I am growing old;
I don’t want a lot of gold—
specially the earthly kind.
I’ve got heaven on my mind.
There we’ll walk on streets of gold,
in the Bible we are told.
Everything so nice and clean—
no more litter will be seen.
No drunk drivers on the street,
where true saints of God shall meet;
billboards won’t be telling lies,
smog won’t irritate your eyes.
Bags of garbage won’t disgrace
mansion lawns in yonder place;
we’ll not need a walking cane—
no arthritis—no more pain!
Folks will all be friendly there;
everyone will join in prayer.
Here, the atheists sport their craze;
there, we’ll all be singing praise!
We won’t need the trees for shade
where the roses never fade;
luscious fruit all year—much more—
all be rich and no one poor.
Life down here is not for long,
so I’ll sing my happy song
when I’m present in the fold,
no one there will call me old.
fpn/1985
Picture: depositphotos.com #19007777, standard license
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