Now, I think there is a likeness `twixt St Peter`s life and mine For he did a lot of trampin` long ago in Palestine He was `union` when the workers first began to organize And I`m glad that old St Peter keeps the gate of Paradise When the ancient agitator and his brothers carried swags I`ve no doubt he very often tramped with empty tucker-bags And I`m glad he`s Heaven`s picket, for I hate explainin` things And he`ll think a union ticket just as good as Whitely King`s When I reach the great head-station -which is somewhere `off the track` I won`t want to talk with angels who have never been out back They might bother me with offers of a banjo meanin` well And a pair of wings to fly with, when I only want a spell I`ll just ask for old St Peter, and I think, when he appears I will only have to tell him that I carried swag for years `I`ve been on the track,` I`ll tell him, `an` I done the best I could` And he`ll understand me better than the other angels would He won`t try to get a chorus out of lungs that`s worn to rags Or to graft the wings on shoulders that is stiff with humpin` swags But I`ll rest about the station where the work-bell never rings Till they blow the final trumpet and the Great Judge sees to things.SourceThe script ran 0.001 seconds.
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