I hitch-hiked to the end of Armageddon

and found a silver door that stood ajar,

inside a room, an angel met me head on

he shook my hand and said: "You've traveled far."

A Stratocaster lay there, softly crying,

the power chords I played were heaven-sent,

receiving no applause, I started dying,

and heard the whispered reverie: "repent."

A cup of Mother's milk revitalized me,

I searched for God but he was out to lunch,

the rings of Saturn spun out and advised me

I'd been the victim of a sucker punch.

A gypsy took me down into the crystal,

my eyes became a mystic trilogy,

I heard the bang and saw the smoking pistol:

The Showdown at the Birth of History.

Returning to the present, I sat weeping,

the mysteries of life were such a blow,

the keyhole to the past is not for peeping.

the future is the only place to go.

But even as I try to be a poet,

the cries of comets reach me on the air,

the dice is in my hand and I shall throw it,

and answer all the questions that are there.

Should I not rise tomorrow, calm your grieving,

save all your lamentations for the dead,

remember me as he who kept believing

but couldn't wait, so carried on ahead.