(04 October 1943 / Germany)

A Poem For Jerry H. ***

Updrafts are currents of warm air that rise,
released by devils on request from friendly gods,
selective they will help all moths and flies
with humans though, the picture is quite odd.
A man can be defeated by an enemy of chance
sprawled on the ground he worshipped previously indeed,
he swayed and frolicked to the music at the happy dance
yet unknown forces mowed him down, a useless weed.
Each Sunday all the gods sit in the heaven's cocktail BAR,
to make decisions on the stragglers and the downed,
they see and judge the characters and sinners from afar
and send updrafts to those found worthy, only very few are found.
So, Jerry, tell me, God said in his earnest voice,
what have you now to say, is it be or not to be
Assessing you and your good deeds will make my choice.
Dear Lord, I'm partial to your Penderyn, the Scotch you drink yourself,
my poetry is without equal so some say, but have a peek,
at home, the little woman is a treasure, works just like an elf
for which I thank thee, there is really little that I seek.
You shall, said God, be jumping queues to be awarded health,
I made a note of this while getting just a taste,
your soul is to my liking, it makes up for any wealth
so bless you now my son, you will get well though not in haste.
We need the likes of you up here, and when your moment comes
your tasks will be to serve and freshen drinks on Sundays just for me,
I know you are familiar with whiskeys, scotches, vodkas and most rums
I'm looking forward to you in a dozen years, and bring your poetry.


Note: Penderyn is a very expensive Scotch.

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Comments (1)

When stationed in Germany, I use to watch the gliders catch the up drafts of air