Bed Time

When I heard God jar his big brass bell,
I set aside my Tums-for-the-tummy and cried, 
"Please God, Not before my Campbell's Soup."
"But time," He said, "is for me to choose, 
So come upstairs to bed.  
It's a quarter past your dying time, 
Its time."
Between my morning eggs and coffee break,
When my wife was washing up the frying pan, 
("You will die," she said, "and me so young.  I    
     don't suppose you'll want your Grilled
     cheese toast.")
I don't suppose I'll want, 
I don't suppose, 
I,
Who once was, 
Don't.
After the sunny side-up when the sun still
     shines in the window on the east side of 
     our house, 
And before the mid-morning break when we chat 
     about the next day, 
He who once was me, 
Isn't.
Isn't there to chat about when I will be a lack 
     in time.  
And suppose that God who sent me to bed without 
     my mid-day-meal, 
Isn't.
In that case I never was.