A POEM JUST FOR "TELEPHONE" WORKERS...
When from this earth I take my leave, the corporation will not grieve.
The work I did will be absorbed, redistributed, or just ignored.
But by that time I will not care, floating on celestial air.
An angel greets me by the Gate, says I do not have to wait.
St. Peter gives me a knowing smile, as I move beyond the rank and file.
Beyond Mother Theresa and the Pope, past the man who created liquid Soap.
I stand in awe before the Gate. In dreadful anticipation do I wait To hear the voice of God decree, just what fate He has for me..
I think of all the wrong I've done. The fear erases all the fun.
And suddenly I fear the worst, the never ending flames and thirst.
But just as I abandon hope, and wish that I'd Invented soap, His gentle voice allays my fears, soothes my soul and dries my tears:
"Enter, friend, you have had your hell. I understand you worked for Ma Bell."
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