Taxi To Heaven

It was a fixed rate, your heart was constant,
as we passed hanging grapes, wine and virgins,
there were streams of gold, your hands no longer cold,
heavenly immigration beckoned with new beginnings.

Various signs hung on the trees, 'no scissors,
no beards, no poets, no pretenders to the throne,'
the list was endless, we were allowed to second-guess,
we gaped in awe while the driver continued to moan.

A fat republican with funny hair had been denied entry,
due to insurrection, high walls and insufficient genitals,
pictures of Bin Laden, Gaddafi and Hussain had crosses on,
they said that we won't let you in if you don't have the balls.

We kissed briefly, smiled, as we went thro' pearly gates,
the restrictions continued, including Richard Branson's 'Mates.'