Cosmic Glue

I'm from a long line of descenders.
We're buried when we die.
Educated by ascenders
who go to God on high.

Which way I'm going to go
remains to be seen.
I'd be happy just to know
I could stay here in between.

Descenders are a funny lot.
We like to hang around.
Buy ourselves a little plot
and take it underground.

Ascenders think they're going to fly.
Poor things.
Bless their souls.
Just like that famous Jewish guy,
they've got lofty goals.

They think that God will come for them.
That they're the chosen few.
Take them back to live with Him
and Heaven's who's who 

while we all lie in wait,
a hymming and a humming.
Just sleep and masterbate
until the second coming.

But what if we're not picked?
Or lack sufficient pull?
Or find that we've been tricked?
Or the magic bus is full?

What about the rest of us?
How "bout me and you?
I know a dirty little job
the rest of us could do.

Round up all those pretenders
and march 'em two by two.
Throw their asses in some blenders
and whip up some cosmic glue.