Saint Peter

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.