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The pearly gates were literally pearl,
A blindingly celestial display.
St Peter, with my personal dossier,
Stood shimmering in their iridescent swirl.

I knew I'd been a decent sort of bloke,
Who wouldn't have to knock on heaven's door
For long, though Peter took his time to pore
Over the file, then raised his face and spoke.

"It seems that fifty years ago you sliced
Your clumsy fingers with a Stanley knife
And crushed your chances of eternal life
By blasphemously shouting 'Jesus Christ!' "

His venerable glare was so forbidding
That I stood gripped by images of Hell
Until, to break the terrifying spell,
He wryly smiled and murmured, "Only kidding."