BLACK BUTTERFLY

 POETRY, PROSE AND PAINTINGS

               SOFTWARE FOR SAINTS.

             Little Johnny knelt at the foot of his bed,

             hands clasped together, golden curls on his head.

             He looked so sweet, with his cute button nose,

             and completing the picture, ten little pink toes.

             His mum shouted up from the foot of the stairs:

             Switch off your computer! Remember your prayers!

             Johnny got up. To the keyboard he went,

             with hands moving quickly and little head bent.

             with positive actions; he seemed not to care,

             he pressed a few keys, some here, some more there,

             till up on the monitor came the Lord's Prayer.

             With out further delay, no thought he could fail,

             he typed out the address of the secret e-mail.

             GOD@PARADISEDOTCOSLASHHEAVEN.

             The prayer was sent at twenty past seven.

             It landed quite quickly in Our Father's in-tray.

             He lifted it out in His usual kind way,

             smiled serenely and said; Little boys like to play.

             The Archangel Gabrielle, not amused by the trick,

             despatched with the Earth Button a Pentium chip,

             to Johnny's computer where it settled so quick!

             Next day, after school and having his tea,

             Johnny galloped up stairs and switched on his PC.

             He was settling down, to enjoy his X-Files

             But the screen held a message in front of his eyes:

             WARNING! Fatal Exception! Code not recognised!

             Dumbfounded, young Johnny tried again and again.

             Though the X-Files came up, they wouldn't remain.

             Then a chorus of angels chanted out from thin air,

             saying; Little boy Johnny, you must learn to care.

             If you beg for forgiveness for e-mailing Heaven,

             we'll reinstate X-Files and double O Seven.

             Johnny fell to his knees at the foot of the bed.

             I truly am sorry, please forgive me, he said.

             The monitor crackled, Johnny stared, his face pale.

             The message read; 'No further contact by e-mail.

             PS, we'll accept the Lord's Prayer that is true,

             but on the condition, it is spoken by you.

             And when the time comes that you've grown very old

             and you step up at last to the Great Gates of Gold,

             remember, young Johnny, though technology's grand,

             the last prayer of all, you deliver by hand.'