Before the heavenly choir begins,
The angels congregate on pins,
Wingtips to tips – as many as will fit.
(On normal pins, that’s roughly infinite).
Then, after stretching hams and spines,
Assemble into chorus lines,
Prepared to dance God’s praises for a bit.
There’s room to spare upon a pin,
When you’re incorporeal and thin,
As dancers tend to be. They look amazing,
In part because their diets are mere grazing.
They only sip the cloud top mists,
And nibble crumbs of Eucharists,
Plus, exercise continually while praising.
A dance floor made of stainless steel
Might bruise a mortal dancer’s heel.
But angels dance as though they truly love it.
With grace that prima ballerinas covet,
Unhampered by fatigue or pains
Endured by those on lower planes.
With heart and grit and wings they rise above it.
Once the heavenly choir begins
The angels dance on heads of pins:
They rumba, mambo, samba, salsa, swing,
Breakdance and boogie. Some of everything.
They shake a leg and cut a rug.
They waltz, Watutsi, jitterbug,
Jive and krump to glorify The King.
To the heavenly choir’s hymn,
They do the monkey and the swim,
The Flamenco, the foxtrot, the frug and fandango,
The hula, the hustle, the twist, and the tango.
Every graceful, groovy move
Cool nuns in musicals might approve
For students with their shoes off in the gym.
Because their aims are praise and piety
They firmly shun all impropriety,
Moves that might a blushing conscience irk.
They don’t lambada. They don’t twerk.
Remembering their holy duties
Angels never grind their booties.
They save that kind of thing for after work.