Listen.

Can you hear?

There are no engines in Heaven;

So, all those harping clouds can wait,

And tell Saint Peter I’m running late.

My tach is hung on a red seven,

Took a detour – story at eleven,

Had to take a ride through hell,

Before paving to build a motel.

Yes, there are no engines in Heaven;

So, tell the valet I’m running late,

My tach is hung on quarter to eight.