There’s a place for any that passes clean—but for you there’s never a place:
The Endless Smoke would blacken your lips, and the Girls would spit in your face;
And the Beer and the Meat go sour on your guts—for you died the death of disgrace.
We were pals on earth: but by God’s brave Son and the bomb that I reached too late,
I damn the day and I blast the hour when first I called you mate;
And I’d sell my soul for one of my feet, to hack you from the gate—
To hack you hence to the lukewarm hells that the priest-made ovens heat,
Or the faked-pearl heaven of pulpit gods, where the sheep-faced angels bleat
And the halo’s rim is as hard to the head as the gilded floor to the feet.”