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.