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A Grandma should be sweet and steady,
her hair in curls, her air refined,
her smell a little gingerbready
and when she prays, her wishes kind.

My Grandma was another story.
She liked to picture Purgatory
and all her loved ones in a row
while God decided where they’d go.

She didn’t think it sacrilegious
to hope He might take her advice.
Who better knew their sin and vice?
Her naughty list was most prodigious.

For any who’d invoked her ire:
a swim across the Lake of Fire.