Birds Of A Feather

The poem

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.