COUNTRY HEAVEN

An old country singer lay dying
At the end of a long, weary life,
And he lay with his loved ones around him:
Three dogs, seven horse, and a wife.
"O Mary, the voices are calling.
They're calling and telling me to go,
But before I set out on my journey,
There one thing that I gotta know:

Do they play country music in Heaven?
Are there still four square beats to a bar?
Can I find a backing group amongst the angels?
Can I swap my plucking harp for a guitar?
'Cos I can't, I just can't leave my music.
It's the thing that has served me so well;
So if I can't play my music in Heaven,
I'll go play my music in Hell."

And with that, he lay back on his pillow
With a sad dreamy look in his eye,
And his soul saddled up and departed
For that pearly stockade in the sky.
And there stood St Peter a-waiting,
And he opened those big rhinestone gates.
"But before I go in," said the singer,
"St Peter, I must know my fate."

"Come inside now," said Peter, "and rest you.
Change out of them dirty old things.
Try these breeches of snowy white buckskin
And a waistcoat with slits for your wings.
Yes, you can play your music in Heaven—
And your gee-tar is safe in your hands.
There is no room in Hell for a singer
'Cos it's too full of rock-and-roll bands."

So he played country music in Heaven,
And there were four square beats to the bar,
And he found a backing group among the angels,
And he swapped his plucking harp for a guitar.