A Poet In Heaven
I think that when I die, I shall many poets get to see,
by richard (sean) scarbrough (james)
Wether it is Poe, or Dickens, Frost, or even Emily.
We'll all shake hands and give each our names,
But what won't matter will be our amount of Fame.
There will be things to write with, pencil or computer,
Plenty of paper, stone but I can't fathom pewter.
The sun will always be shiny except for maybe Poe,
He might prefer a gloomy day I really don't know.
Our muses will be there too to give us each a start.
My wife will be there, For she has my loving heart.
But when I get to heaven and on those streets of gold,
I know that I will not have to worry about getting old.
I believe that God is a poet too at heart for you see,
He made all things beatiful just for you and for me.
The roses and trees and all that we write about,
Was given for us to use, of that I have no doubt.