When Saint Peter asked me how I’d died --
If I’d been drowned, or burnt, electrified,
Shot, stabbed, laid low by homicide --
“I forgot,” was all that I replied.
“No,” I said, feeling mortified,
“I bit the dust, another lonely suicide."
With that, his angelic eyes grew wide.
"Not on purpose, though,” I clarified.
“Skydiving one day, goggle-eyed,
I became a bit too preoccupied
Admiring the beauty of the countryside
To notice my chute had come untied.
How I forgot, I’m still mystified;
But I could only watch, horrified,
The chord did nothing every time I tried,
As the Earth and I were about to collide.”
Saint Peter waved his hand, satisfied.
“An accident,” he said, “hardly suicide.”
“It was my fault, though” I sadly sighed.
“You see, I’d become so terrified,
I forgot... the reserve chute on the other side.”