When Saint Peter asked me how I’d died -- If I’d been drowned, or burnt, electrified, Shot, stabbed, laid low by homicide -- “I forgot,” was all that I replied. “No,” I said, feeling mortified, “I bit the dust, another lonely suicide.” With that, his angelic eyes grew wide. “Not on purpose, though,” I clarified. “Skydiving one day, goggle-eyed, I became a bit too preoccupied Admiring the beauty of the countryside To notice my chute had come untied. How I forgot, I’m still mystified; But I could only watch, horrified, The chord did nothing every time I tried, As the Earth and I were about to collide.” Saint Peter waved his hand, satisfied. “An accident,” he said, “hardly suicide.” “It was my fault, though” I sadly sighed. “You see, I’d become so terrified, I forgot... the reserve chute on the other side.”
