Robert Frost and Stinkin’ Olaf, the one-eyed peg-legged fiddler, are standing in front of St. Peter outside the Pearly Gates. St. Peter says, “Well, Gentlemen, we unfortunately only have room for one of you. You are both good men, having lived for the benefit of mankind. Artists of uncommon ilk. Your works have inspired the best in your fellow man. Neither of you has done enough wrong in God’s eyes to be condemned to Hell, but we can only accept one more soul. There is simply not enough room for two. God and I took counsel on this matter and He decided that a contest would determine which of you shall gain admittance to the Kingdom of Heaven. Because you are both creative spirits and sought to inspire through your minds while you yet lived, He felt that a poetry competition would be the best idea.”
“That is capital by me,” responds Mr. Frost, a grin playing across his lips, “I have been a weaver of words for the long years of my life. I am well practiced and prepared to accept the challenge.”
Olaf, frowning, stares blankly at the cloud upon wich he is standing, akwardly kicking up little trails of white mist with his rough hewn peg, wringing his weathered hands a bit. “Well, I don’ know. I wussa fiddl’r. I ain’t so much good with fancy wurds like ole Robbie here.” He looks up into St. Peter’s sympathetic, glowing face with sad eyes.
St. Peter puts his hand on Olaf’s slumped shoulder. “God is a fair being, Olaf. You know this, The Almighty can sense it. God has made a condition to be met with this contest. You both must use Timbuktu in your recitation. The judgement He makes shall be based upon how you employ Timbuktu.” Peter smiles broadly at the dishevelled fiddler, gently lifting Olaf’s chin with a loving hand. “You can do this, Olaf. You are an artist at heart. Music, poetry, painting, dancing… these are all really the same skills. You inspire with emotion.”
Olaf feels a bit of weight lift from his chest. “I’ll give ‘er a shot, I s’pose. I ain’t so good at speeches, nor that po’try, but if its tha only way, then thar it is, eh.
St. Peter takes a step back from the odd pair. “Robert, you are first. You are the better word-smith, so God will give time to Olaf to think.”
The great poet nods. He begins, well enunciated and projecting, “As I walk across this flat and barren land, my feet bare upon the burning, golden sand, I witness a fleet caravan, go passing phantomly through, on it’s way to Timbuktu.”
“That’s quite a job, Robert.” Peter smiles and claps quietly. He turns to Olaf. “Are you ready?”
“I think so. I’m sure it ain’t gonna ring like Robbie, though.”
“Just do your best, Olaf. You can do this. God knows of what quality you are made.”
Olaf plants his booted foot and peg close side by side, folding his knarled hands together behind his bent back. He closes his already squinted eyes, his thick brows and hairy, round cheeks hiding the lids completely. “Tim-n-me a’campin’ went, saw three women in a tent, them bein’ three and us bein’ two, I buck’d one and Tim buck’d two.”