Bob was always rushing.
It was his natural state.
He loved to be too busy,
And he simply wouldn't wait.
He strove to make life harder,
In every single way.
If it ended in exhaustion,
Then he'd had the perfect day.
The low road wasn't meant for him,
He'd take the mountain pass.
Why saunter on a muggy day,
When you could run and get there fast.
Lying down was surely wrong,
It filled him with a dread.
So little did he ever rest,
He didn't own a bed.
Of course no one could carry on,
At this frenetic pace.
Predictably it all went wrong,
And he fell out of the race.
The Doctor said he had to rest,
And prescribed a holiday.
Somewhere that he could relax,
Somewhere very far away.
On a sandy distant island,
With views that made him gasp,
He really tried to laze about,
But, I guess it couldn't last.
At dawn he ran in to the sea,
Still wearing his pyjamas,
And tried to push the tide back,
From the shores of the Bahamas.
He wanted to keep grafting.
He didn't want a cure.
So every day he rushed about,
'Til life showed him the door.
When he saw before him Heaven's Gate,
He had a heavy heart.
He couldn't spend eternity,
Reclining with a harp.
He begged the angels long and hard,
To send him down to Hell.
He felt there must be more to do,
Where all the sinners dwell.
The angels shrugged and calmly said,
Through their beautific grins.
'You may have lived a crazy life,
But you haven't any sins.'
Poor Bob, he was defeated.
He felt like he could cry.
For him this was no paradise.
Why did he have to die?
The angels thought they'd seen it all,
But this to them was new.
They had a chat and then they said,
'We'll see what we can do.'
Should you find yourself in Heaven,
Look out for dear old Bob.
He's the madman rushing endlessly,
On some angel given job.
He polishes the candlesticks.
He irons for the choir.
He sweeps the paths and smooths the clouds,
And tunes the lutes and lyres.
His chosen life, it's plain to see,
Is not for everyone.
But if you've ever chance to ask, he'll say,
'It's my idea of fun.'