[A poem so old it can vote.  But I think it should still get its day in the sun.]

I hope I’m as pretty as you when I die
but I don’t think I have the bone structure
High cheek bones and high brow;
you don’t get into heaven with a nose like mine
even if I do grease the palm of St. Peter
It’s too bad St. Judas doesn’t watch the gate
I hear he’s the kind of guy who understands
what it’s like to never photograph right

My DNA’s a weaker strand of failed prophylactic and lowered inhibition
The way things are with us
Children are God’s little reminder that there’s a two drink minimum
In any lasting love affair

When the love has laughed last it leaves for better company
and you’re left with the son you never meant to have
At your funeral he’ll give the eulogy
only to mispronounce your name and forget your favorite song

While in heaven you’ll still be as pretty
as the night my condom broke