The Judge Up Above

"When all is said and done When our wicks all burn out When our stories are outrun By "The End", and we punch out "What remains with the dust That we once came from Are our memories and just The smile they put on some "Nothing else matters once we're Interred", you've been taught, Well let me tell you, you're Gravely mistaken in this thought. For up in the skies there's a little competition- Though I may be rebuked for this admission- Everyone's in on it, it's quite entertaining There's bets on favourites for champion reigning So many categories, new ones everyday The rules are a mess but the game's here to stay. For death itself may be dark and grey But what accompanies your firing neurons' decay.. ..Is a fun writing contest! Epitaphs and last words Or something you jot down right when you enter All of it's eligible, and at least two thirds Of all entries are written once at the center. People write how they feel or how They want to be remembered The essence of their lives somehow Brushed up or dismembered In pithy little sayings, oh you humans are funny There's some good ones I've seen, some classic Some terrible clichés, some quite on the money Some that deserve hell, though that'd be drastic Lucky for you, there is no hell. So alas "Live, Laugh, Love", "Nothing ever lasts" And all of the other common platitudes Cross my desk in unbounded magnitudes Because I'm The Judge, and I have been for ages, With my powers, each week I judge hundreds of pages But today's my once-in-a-century leave And though discussing work is my pet peeve I thought I'd share some of the funny stuff Since you're asking me so politely Since you've already heard enough And sworn that you won't write it. There’s folks who refuse to believe it’s happening: “Please take me back, this is a clerical mistake.” “It’s all in my head!” : standard scientific rambling, “I’m hallucinating before I go, never again to wake.” Married men claim they can still hear Their wives whining from way up here And the women swear that by then their spouses Either starved to death or burned down their houses All of them crammed in a long hall with few fans Forced to be there, ‘cause they have no other plans Do what they can, poor things, desperately write To their Gods, their saints, explaining their plight They quite misunderstand, they beg for salvation. Talk of the good they’ve done; oh how they’ve prayed Write themselves into heaven and out of damnation As if an omnipotent being could thusly be swayed Lucky for me, there is no heaven. For alas, Good and bad are relative in this universe It’s too hard to judge who’ll fail and who’ll pass What I can judge, though, is a good verse Oh, I love those who rhyme their name With their cause of death or claim to fame Like old man Rick: “I told you I was sick” Or Fred whose head was hit by a brick Teachers and students, priests and businessmen All end up here, hunched over paper with pen Then onto where they’ll stay, for the rest of all days To be remembered, most of all, for turn of phrase.