Birds Of A Feather

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.

by Robert William Service

Comments (1)

There's a poem expressing a similar feeling. A famous Chinese poet named Su Dong Po (also named Su Shi) wrote it in 1095. Here it is (I translate it into English; If you can read Chinese, make sure you read the Chinese version cause it's way much better^_^) : A Butterfly in Love with a Flower It is the time of the year When red petals drift away While apricots are still small and not sweet Most willow catkins have been blown away Yet everywhere the green grass can be seen Quietly a stream flows through the village And a pair of swallows forms a lovely scene Outside a wall of a house A man walks by Inside the wall A fair lady can be heard laughing on a swing The girl laughs The man listens Till the laughter inside the wall finally fades away The man utters a sigh The poet remarks Love irritates and the enchanted people can only sigh