Moon at Half Past Noon

The line to get in was dreadfully long,
a celestial queue, both patient and strong.
St. Peter was frazzled, his halo was bent,
from processing souls through the Firmament.

A memo came down from the Management high:
“The salvation quotas are awfully shy.
We need a new system, a sensible creed,
to sort the new souls based on virtue and need.”

So they formed a committee of angels and saints,
to listen to egos and moral complaints.
They handed out forms on a pearlescent clip:
“Please rate your own life on a 1-to-10 scale.
List every good deed. Don’t forget to detail.”

The results were, of course, a spectacular mess.
Ninety-nine percent claimed “Righteousness.”
They’d polished their sins ’til they shone like a virtue,
and wrote of their failings with clever, smooth cursive.

So they tried a new method, a logical test,
to see who deserved the eternal rest.
Question One: Did you ever tell lies?
A roar of “No!” came from the crowd to the skies.
(They instantly failed, to their utter surprise.)

The system was crashing, the gates were near shut,
for the standard was simply too tight, too tight.
Then a Psychologist soul, with a kind, knowing face,
Said, “Friends, we are looking at this the wrong way.
This isn’t a test. It’s a therapeutic stay.”