Of bosom friends I've had but seven, <br /> Despite my years are ripe; <br />I hope they're now enjoying Heaven, <br /> Although they're not the type; <br />Nor, candidly, no more am I, <br /> Though overdue to die. <br /> <br />For looking back I see that they <br /> Were weak and wasteful men; <br />They loved a sultry jest alway, <br /> And women now and then. <br />They smoked and gambled, soused and swore, <br /> --Yet no one was a bore. <br /> <br />'Tis strange I took to lads like these, <br /> On whom the good should frown; <br />Yet all with poetry would please <br /> To wash his wassail down; <br />Their temples touched the starry way, <br /> But O what feet of clay! <br /> <br />Well, all are dust, of fame bereft; <br /> They bore a cruel cross, <br />And I, the canny one, am left,-- <br /> Yet as I grieve their loss, <br />I deem, because they loved me well, <br /> They'll welcome me in Hell.<br /><br />Robert William Service<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/birds-of-a-feather/
