After an eternity of tippling
begun by the Irish saints
and monastic brew masters
from all the wide world,
the dark forces of Hell
saw their chance to seize Heaven.
Leading the holy Host,
blind with the drink,
the Old Trickster conducted
a conga-line of loyal angels
and saints, named and unnamed,
out of the Golden Gates
and deep into the fiery
halls and hollows of Hell.
And the legions of devils
with bat wings and brimstone breath
occupied the heavenly city
and sat at the banquet tables
still bearing white cups of love
along with sweet pitchers of mercy.
And there was quiet in Heaven
for the space of half an hour.
And then a ruckus arose
out of the depths of the other place,
a noise that set Satan
clamping his webbed hands
firmly over his pointed ears,
as did the rest of the fallen,
unused to such pandemonium.
So they tumbled down to see.
Instead of the wailing expected
and the hopeless gnashing of teeth,
a fiddle or two or three
and the handheld beat of a drum
filled the air, not acrid
or sulfurous, but sweet
as a child's first breath.
There was singing, such grand
Hallelujahs, such chorus
on chorus of song from the damned,
now mixed with the people of Heaven
from all the parishes gathered
and welcoming men and the women,
and the 3 Marys trilling their voices.
And the angels, seraphs
and Thrones, shaking and showing
perfect bottoms and gold wings,
were drinking good health in round
after round, and then pissing
over the heads of the Imps
Satan had coaxed down to look.
And the place resembled a wedding
with the whole human race now forgiven.
What once was a hellfire prison
had become the copy of Heaven,
as the saints, and Jesus among them,
poured out mercy, cup after cup,
and every drop was a prayer.