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Robert W Service - Birds Of A Feather
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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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