Call up some angels to play their best,
Let him enjoy the music in rest,
See that on finest ambrosia he feeds,
He’s had about all the hell he needs;
It isn’t just hardly the thing to do
To roast him on earth and the future, too.”
They gave him a harp with golden strings,
A glittering robe with a pair of wings,
And he said, as he entered the Realm of Day,
“Well, this beats cucumber, any way!”