Two Fingers

I'll see you at the Weighing-In,

when your life's sum-total's made

and you set your wealth in Godly deeds

against the sins you've laid.

And you place your final burden

on your hard-pressed next of kin:

Send the chamber-pot back down the line

to be filled up again.

And the hard-headed miracle worker

who bathes his hands in blood,

Will welcome you to the final nod

and cover you with mud.

And he'll say, ``You really should make the deal,''

as he offers round the hat.

``You'd better lick two fingers clean

He'll thank you all for that.''

As you slip on the greasy platform,

and you land upon your back,

You make a wish and you wipe your nose upon the railway track.

While the high-strung locomotive,

with furnace burning bright,

Lumbers on

you wave goodbye

and the sparks fade into night.

And as you join the Good Ship Earth,

and you mingle with the dust

you'd better leave your underpants

with someone you can trust.

And when the Old Man with the telescope

cuts the final strand

you'd better lick two fingers clean,

before you shake his hand.