Birds Of A Feather

 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.

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