Saint Peter, sitting at the Gate of Gold,
Looked idly down the cloudway and, behold,
A soul ascending from this world of woe,
Head up, hands pocketed—serene and bold!
(To souls, such pockets are, I know, denied
As in the flesh we wear on either side,
But the dead rich—or else they wouldn’t play—
With souls of perished pockets are supplied.)
“Ah, Harrison,” the Saint said—“William Greer,
’Twill do you little good to come, I fear;
I’ve certain crows to pick with you—and, first,
You were a ‘patron of the ring,’ I hear.”
Nodding and smirking, said the soul: “That’s right;
Nothing so charmed me as to see a fight.
But pray observe that as a man of peace,
Meek under challenge, I was ‘out of sight’!”
To this the Saint made answer: “Although gay,
You were not reckless; but, my friend, they say
You—what the devil was it that you did?
Ah, once you wrote, I understand, a play.
“You had the right to do so, ’tis agreed;
The Ring and Stage are near akin, indeed,
With you to write and Sullivan to act.
But, sir, the play you wrote was Runnmymede !”
“Well?” “Worst I ever saw!” The pride alurk
In authorship flashed forth, and like a dirk
That seeks a heart the cutting answer came:
“I guess you haven’t seen my later work.”
“What? you impenitent, you’ve written since?”
The Warder thundered, making William wince.
“Only to lie about my critics, please.
Of liars—bar Sam Chamberlain—I’m Prince!”
The Saint drew back his great two-handed key
And, as the nude immortal turned to flee,
Swung the big engine of his holy wrath,
And smote him where the back forgets to be!
All Heaven resounded with the dreadful blow,
And Echo babbled of it down below!
To farthest reaches of the shoreless void
Raced the receding sound-waves of his “O!”
Rubbing the part with many a grimace,
He said while hurtling Sheolward through space:
“Poor old Saint Peter!” and with a blue grin
Added: “That Paradise is a jay place.”