Old Wesley McWhinney was known far and wide
throughout Arizona, the state where he died;
preaching the Good News right to the end,
pleading with Tombstone to change and amend.

For men down at Tombstone liked women and whisky;
they liked playing cards and sometimes got frisky,
made air so polluted with fast-flying lead,
one whiff of it caught you and left you for dead.

But Preacher McWhinney died peaceful and whole,
and away to the Pearly Gates winged up his soul;
all frilly and white in new robes, no one better,
and as he had promised he sent back a letter.

He let them all know just how well he had done
up there out in space on his heavenly run.
He said he’d arrived at the Gates all askew,
for he’d dropped down stone-dead, pat in his pew.

His wings and his halo both felt kinda strange,
they’d issued him with at the first interchange;
halfway between earth and heaven on high,
where ready-made outfits are dealt in sky.

Sandals and robes and haloes and harps,
that play divine music in soft flats and sharps;
issued to angels with new sets of wings
to go with the music they play on their strings.


So Wesley arrived at the Gates all brand-new,
and adjusting his halo he joined the short queue;
composed of two cowboys from Kansas that day,
who’d picked up some lead when they’d gone to buy hay.

They’d gone to heaven, but their friends down below
had gone where they’re grilled in hot ovens set “slow”;
the two guys in front had died just before
Preacher McWhinney and stood at the door.

They were waiting for Peter to open it up,
for he’d gone to a snack-bar for something to sup;
he’s reg’lar that way and often takes breaks
for it gets very lonely keeping the Gates.

Few folks pass by where he sits forever,
oiling his locks or doing whatever
needs doing to keep Pearly Gates gleaming,
polishing portals or endlessly dreaming.

He has to check angels who start flying in,
to make sure their slates are quite clean of sin;
the truth is, St Peter has not much to do,
his hours are many, but customers few.

For years sometimes no one goes there at all,
and time then hangs heavy for Peter and Paul
who occasionally drops by to help his pal out,
swapping tall fishermen’s tales about trout.

The day Wes McWhinney turned up at his door
and the two in the line had gone in before,
St Peter looked up saying firmly and clear,
“Unless you’re checked out, you can’t come in here!”
He examined the halo and Wesley’s white clothes
over the specs at the end of his nose;
then checked out his sandals and feathers for trim,
to make sure he looked smart before he went in.

For they’re very partic’lar in heaven on dress,
and insist you look neat when you stand up to bless,
or sit down on feast-days to heavenly manna,
listening to harps and the odd loud hosanna.

Wesley passed muster all right with his halo,
but then had to tell about al his past lay-low,
the shadier sides of his old earthly life,
when sins and wrong-doings once had been rife.

He admitted to Peter he’d stolen a dollar
or two from the church-plate, leaving it hollow
way back in youth in the church where he prayed;
but Wesley insisted he’d doubly repaid

Every cent he had stolen, the following Sunday.
“I put in my winnings I won at a fun-day,
gambling at Mac’s at a card-game dead beat,
where I have to confess I sometimes did cheat.”

He admitted he’d drunk hard, paid visits he said
to Big Bertha’s roll-about bawdy -house bed;
but that was way back in his rollicking youth,
before he’d reformed, become holy and couth.

“Any more sins?” Peter asked, very keen.
“You can’t enter here unless you come clean.”
Wesley thought hard and said very low,
“The last time I sinned was a long time ago.
I’ve tried logo straight since I turned a new leaf.”
But Peter winked back and asked with relief,
“Where do you come from? We must get that clear.”
Wesley said proud, “I left Tombstone for here.”

“Tombstone?” said Peter. “You’re pulling my wing!
You’re not trying to fool me just to get in?”
“Indeed not,” said Wesley, who looked worried now.
“If you’ve got a map near, I’ll show you I vow.”

So Peter pulled out a decrepit old chart,
that Noah had once used navigating the Ark.
They looked and they looked but could find not a glimmer
of Tombstone; and things looked so much grimmer

For Wesley to enter the Heavenly City
St Peter himself began to feel pity,
till Wesley suggested the map was an old one,
and ventured to say that the town was a new one.

“I’ll bet you a buck, if you care to go down, sir,
that you’ll find it, St Peter, a mighty fine town, sir.”
“We’ll go back together to your home location,”
said Peter, “the next time I take a vacation.

It’s dull around here. I don’t have much fun,
and you led a mighty wild life there, my son.”
The saint opened up looking bright as a moonstone,
saying, “Welcome Saint Wes. You’re the first here from Tombstone!”