A Little Concerned, That's All

Heaven’s walls are covered with frost, the gates are locked, the keys been lost,
there’s snow on the drive, the shades are down, there’s mail in the box but
there’s no one around.
Angels smoke with snow on their wings, huddled in an alley saying some of those
things, that you shouldn’t say out loud, that no one should hear but you rake a
look around and the meaning is clear. '
Cause the phone is dead, the bills aren’t paid, the housekeeper admits that
she’s afraid.
There’s people on the road with maps and flares and a convoy of trucks move
from there.
Some attempt help but are turned away by a hand written sign, «No Visitors Today!», A conference of saints meet in the hall, share coffee and
crepes and stare at the wall.
Where have you gone?
Don’t bury your head, we’re getting concerned you might be…
sick.
Satan conjures evil and when he’s done, there’s silence from Heaven he’s
thinking, «This is no fun…» He makes his way to Heaven through the gates down the hall,
knocking on the bedroom door hears nothing through the wall.
And the moving men want someone to sign, a representative says that everything
is fine.
When the TV cameras off, there’s sweat on his brow, he wonders if purgatory has
his resume by now.
Where have you gone?
Don’t bury your head, we’re getting concerned you might be…
sick.
In the shipping room an old lady sits.
At 5 the whistle blows, she bends her head and quits, five miracles completed,
it’s been a busy day, she can’t keep up the pace but the work won’t go away.
Where have you gone?
Don’t bury your head, we’re getting concerned you might be…
sick.