Andrew Jackson Goes To Heaven

It was on a sticky day in June,
That Andrew Jackson died.
Ships were built and statues hewn;
Americans all cried.

The hero of New Orleans
Was lain beside his wife
People doffed their hats and spoke
Of his heroic life.
Songs were sung and stories told
Of indomitable will
Books were penned and goodies sold
They put him on a bill.

But when you get to Heaven,
You’ll find no mourning here
The angels, yes, are weeping;
but they’re weeping ’cause of FEAR.

Saint Peter wished to sound alarms,
But instead he ate a sword
“Old Hickory is coming- MMphgh!”
He relatively roared.

Those Holy Gates, they did not last
Jackson punted them apart
Then swiftly kicked a Seraph’s ass
And stabbed Saint Michael’s heart

“Where’s my old friend Jean Lafitte?”
Said Jackson as he swore,
“Who helped the British meet defeat
In that big pointless war?”


“Jean Lafitte here does not dwell,”
A familiar voice did utter
“For pirates always go to Hell,”
Said a man who bounced like butter

The man, of course, was Jackson’s foe
His name was Nicholas Biddle
His national bank brought Andrew woe
His manhood, it was little.

Jackson smote ol’ Biddle’s head-
And swiftly snapped his neck
Now the banker was double dead
His soul now went to Heck.

The rage of the President
had on Earth been global
He now sought just one resident
Inside the Primum Mobile.

Some angels came to make him stop
The Metatron and more
With a thrust and then a chop
Those angels now were gore.

Lucifer himself had come
To try to talk down Andy
The Morning Star became just chum
And was eaten just like candy


The Ophanim rolled in to help
They thought they’d save the day
They were tied together with a yelp
And became the first Segway

The Angel of Death did next appear
Samael was a bruiser
But Death itself soon learned to fear
And found itself a loser.

And now of course, the big boss heard
Of events that did transpire-
He appeared and with a word
The bushes, they caught fire.

“Andrew Jackson, my old friend,”
God said with a smug smile,
“I wish you wouldn’t kill my men,
“Though you do it with such style.”

“I just want one thing, O Lord,”
the former chief proclaimed
“Send Rachel here, or face my sword
“And then be forthwith maimed.”

Elohim sighed and took a breath,
The bushes they did smolder;
“There’s no less paperwork after death,”
Heaven then grew colder.

“You must fill out seven forms,
And then another score;”
“And when your paperwork conforms
“To the guidelines you’ll fill more.”

“Of course there is a fee you pay,
And when the papers you’re done filling,
In a hundred years and then a day-
You’ll have your wife, me willing.”


Fred Nietzsche had lived but one year
When Jackson gave up the ghost
Still even then the boy did hear
That God himself was toast.

God’s death was painful, yes, but fast
And spoke of throughout the land.
And when Andrew Jackson left at last,
He was holding Rachel’s hand.


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