My son came to me when he was about seven
And asked, ‘Mummy, are there undies in heaven?’
I smiled and I pondered as I ruffled his hair
In heaven, there must be angel underwear!
We begin to imagine, my son and I
About the sorts of knickers among the ones who fly.
Are they fluffy and soft and sparkling white?
Do they bind, or twist or are they too tight?
Do they lift, support and hide a multitude of sin?
Do they become ragged or torn or painfully thin?
Are there big ones and little ones, old ones and new?
Sillier and sillier this idea grew!
My son looked at me and I looked at my son,
Then he said, “Well, there’d never be a dirty one!”