Saturday, May 21, 2011

The Rapture Poem

I wrote this 15 years ago. Sadly--no; wait--hilariously, it's still appropriate today.

And in case you were wondering? The Rapture actually did occur at 6PM local time today, when every truly faithful Christian on earth was taken bodily up into heaven.

All ten of them.



I do not know what makes me sicker --
The driver or the bumper sticker;
The car that hucks this hopeful lie
Like spit into my heathen eye,

Or the smug Pharisee who drives
And sits in judgment on the lives
Of those who follow him in traffic --
His conscience clear, his grin seraphic.

Inside his head’s another sign,
A self-revealing valentine,
A sticker that says:
WARNING: THE HOLY BIBLE GIVES ME
THE RIGHT TO MIND YOUR BUSINESS
Or:
WARNING: IN CASE OF LOGICAL ARGUMENT,
THIS HEAD WILL BE EMPTY

I look at folks with signs like that --
The holy commissariat
Who think that God won’t let them die
But suck them high into the sky

Because they’ve earned, by their demeanor,
A trip up Heaven’s vacuum cleaner;
Like faith in Christ is upper-class
And born-again’s a floating gas

And Jesus, child of virgin womb,
Was born the God of Helium --
I look at jerks like that and think,
What are you waiting for, you dink?

You hate this life so much? Then leave.
Reach up to God -- pull on His sleeve
And say to the Creator: “Hey!
Let’s get this Rapture underway!

I've had it with this vale of tears
And Armageddon could take years,
So take me now to where you dwell
And let these sinners go to hell!”

And speaking as the sinner type,
I pray God hears your fervent gripe
And lifts you up, by hand or bus,
As long as it’s way far from us.

Go ahead -- leave -- fly up to God.
Flip us the bird –- we’ll just applaud.
Get raptured -- go -- discorporate.
As if we care? -- man, we can’t wait!

The way we see it, we’re God’s sons --
The holy race; His chosen ones --
Because we use, despite their pains,
The things God gave us-- like our brains.

And what they tell us, friends, is this:
The earth will never live in bliss
Until all zealotry and rant,
Sanctimony and pious cant --

The curse of holier-than-thou --
Are lifted from the here and now.
So please, Jehovah, lift away.
Make this at last The Final Day.

Take up the faithful, north and south,
And stick them in Your holy mouth.
Believe me -- we won’t shed a tear
Or think that we’re abandoned here.

We’ll face our fate and not complain
With many magnums of champagne,
And drink ourselves into a stupor,
And shout: “Goodbye! We think it’s super!

Now we can live our lives with ease
Far from your pompous pieties,
Just like you’ll choir in endless song
The virtues of your holy throng.”

And in the name of brotherhood,
The lost and saved, the bad and good --
The sons of light who taste God’s bread;
The sons who like to use their head --

We’ll toast each other with a drink
Because the truth is that you think
The same thing that we think about you:
Jesus, it’s heaven here without you.


Copyright Matthew J Wells 1997

1 comment:

Horvendile said...

I look forward to re-posting this in October.