He that hath the Key of David
Peter, Peter, holding the keys to Heaven –
Without them, he’s quite undressed !
And looking so very med’eval in expression,
Upon the Papal crest.
And always two, when crossed or in the hand,
As their fated moment waits –
Presumably to seal up the hinterland
Behind the Pearly Gates.
Duplicates ? Or are there two locks ?
Though Roman keys were crude in their click –
I guess the security has taken some knocks,
And been upgraded to the latest trick –
But by flashing the teeth, you’ll hardly outfox
The burglars, who won’t find them hard to pick.
Peter, Peter, jailer or janitor ?
Jingling through the Heavenly crowds.
And locking the safe like a manager,
Or winding-up the clockwork clouds ?
Rhyming Couplets 