If one day you suddenly die
And you find yourself standing before some great pearly gates in the sky
And Clyde - the guy on the door in Writing Heaven answers the bell and says: ‘Hi’
But he doesn’t want to let you in and you’re not sure why.

He’ll say: Well, were you rich and renowned?
Did you say anything wise and profound?
Did you maybe churn out hefty chunks of blockbusting merchandise by the pound?
Or were you just mucking around?

You’ll say: All I can say is, I tried
Some people came along for the ride
One or two of them cried
They said I’d touched something that no-one else had ever touched before, inside.
What? Why are you sniggering, Clyde? 
Wait. Please don’t leave me outside.
I haven’t misled you or lied.
And it wasn’t my fault I died.
It was a badly maintained fairground ride.

And you can see them all there through the gate
No longer worrying about their fate
They’re in writing heaven and it’s great -
boozing and shagging ‘til late.  
But he’s making you stand outside and wait

You’ll panic you’ll be going down to Hell,
To rot for all time in a cell
with some fella who can’t even spell
let alone tell 
a good book from a recipe for crème caramel.
And you can bet his feet will smell
And he’ll probably be a large predatory homosexual
as well.

You’ll reflect on the work you have done
Does it count writing stuff just for fun?
Does a rhyme and well crafted pun
match flogging tense thrillers by the ton?

You never quite made it to print
Some of those guys made a mint
Yet others are famous but skint
But he won’t even give you a hint.

So what is it you have to do
for Clyde to let you through?
There’s a question for you to chew
As you shower or sit on the loo.

For Clyde will be making you sweat
But he doesn’t know either I bet.
So who knows what you or I might get? –
a place where your dreams will be met?
or an eternity of sorrow and regret.