JOHN JONES was head executive of a big city firm,
And countless times had set his heel on some poor human worm.
His office force was duly trained. Each knew just what to do
To turn the nonelect away, and let the chosen through.
People with honest errands there, tired women, busy men,
Were told he was in conference, and couldn’t see them then.
“Come back a little later on,” the office girl would call,
And John would manage not to see the most of them at all.
He passed away in course of time, as even rich men do,
And came up to the pearly gates as though to hurry through.
But lo, the way was firmly barred, and, sitting in a chair,
He saw a white-robed office girl who asked his errand there.
“I hoped,” said he, “Saint Peter would be here and let me by.”
In standard office language she delivered this reply:
“Saint Peter is in conference. How long? I do not know.
Come back a little later--say a million years or so.”