Poetry Archives

Of bosom friends I’ve had but seven,
           Despite my years are ripe;
I hope they’re now enjoying Heaven,
           Although they’re not the type;
Nor, candidly, no more am I,
           Though overdue to die.

For looking back I see that they
           Were weak and wasteful men;
They loved a sultry jest alway,
           And women now and then.
They smoked and gambled, soused and swore,
          —Yet no one was a bore.

’Tis strange I took to lads like these,
           On whom the good should frown;
Yet all with poetry would please
           To wash his wassail down;
Their temples touched the starry way,
           But O what feet of clay!

Well, all are dust, of fame bereft;
           They bore a cruel cross,
And I, the canny one, am left,—
           Yet as I grieve their loss,
I deem, because they loved me well,
           They’ll welcome me in Hell.