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Birds Of A Feather

Robert Service

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.

Added: 25 Mar 2002 | Last Read: 19 Jan 2019 11:23 PM | Viewed: 4478 times

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URL: http://plagiarist.com/poetry/3996/ | Viewed on 19 January 2019.
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