Whose wine is it, anyway?

After the funeral, I was sent to heaven. St. Peter stood at the gates. “Welcome”, he said, “your sins are forgiven”, “Go to the Chamber; Jesus waits”. Jesus summoned me with boisterous mirth, “How was your short time on Earth?” “Fairly decent”, said I with a smile, “Every moment was worthwhile.” “Starting from the time of my birth, I did plenty of things on Earth, I studied hard, acquired a degree, Got a job and made pots of money.” Jesus shot me an unhappy stare, And ordered me to take a chair, Carefully he opened a slim file, and scrutinized it for a while. "You were given the ability to write, To rhyme, to compose and recite, You could have been a famous bard, Like Shelly, Milton & Arthur Ward. In the quest to earn bread & butter, You poured your talent down the gutter. A talented, young Indian Author, preferred to undergo corporate slaughter. Should I have written it on stone? Man doesn't survive on bread alone? Gifted with wit, spiri...

A parchment of distant yore, Stuffed in a bottle, green, Was washed ashore, Clear and pristine. Worded carefully, Short and concise, Written ruefully, By a sailor wise. "The choir's music in the air, is drowned by screams of despair. The freezing water of the Atlantic, Fills the depth's of the Titanic. Dread and fear has taken grip, My heart sinks along with my ship. Through this worded rhyme, My love for you will transcend time. The ship's descent has begun, T'is the end, Oh dear one" For a 100 years clear and pristine, A sailors words washed ashore in a bottle green.