The Wrestler

A Wrestler knocked at the pearly gates,
His face was scarred and cold,
He looked upon the man of fate,
for admissions to the fold.
"What have you done," St. Peter asked,
"to gain admission here?"
"I've been a wrestler, sir", he said,
"for many and many a year."
The pearly gates swung open wide,
St. Peter touched the bell,
"come in son," he said, "and choose your harp,
You've seen your share of hell."