The old man stood on fleecy ground,
Stood tall before the Pearly Gates.
He raised his hand, he let it down,
Sat himself down
And studied.

“Well, sir,” he said, “I need me my book.”

And in his hands appeared a book.
He turned the pages one by one,
Read it over, thought it over,
Sat himself down
And studied.

“Well, sir,” he said, “I need me my halo.”

And on his head appeared a ring
Of golden metal glowing strong.
He touched it once, he felt the thing,
Sat himself down
And studied.

“Well, sir,” he said, “I need me my wings.”

He found some wings and put them on,
Fastened the feathery harness in front,
Shifted them straight, then smoothed them out,
Sat himself down
And studied.

“Well, sir,” he said, “I need me my harp.”

He got himself a golden harp
And ran his thumbs along the strings,
Plucked it once or twice, found it nice,
Sat himself down
And studied.

“Well, sir,” he said, “I got me my wings,
A halo, harp, a book to read,
And everything they say I need.
I am ready at last my Maker to meet.”

So he got himself up
And straightened his wings,
Slung his harp across his back,

Propped the book beneath his arm,
And rose up straight and tall.

He stood again before the Gates.
He rapped it once.
Knock!
And rapped it twice.
Knock!
And once again.
Knock!
And nothing happened, so he waited,
And waited,
And waited,
And waited,
Waiting for the LONGEST time.

“Well, sir,” he said, “there’s nobody home.”

He look his book upon the ground,
Put down his halo on the book,
Took down the wings and golden harp,
And laid them side by side,
Sat himself down,
And died.