My Friends

The man above was a murderer, the man below was a thief;

And I lay there in the bunk between, ailing beyond belief;

A weary armful of skin and bone, wasted with pain and grief.

I was sure enough in a direful fix, and often I wondered why

They did not take the chance that was left and leave me alone to die,

Or finish me off with a dose of dope — so utterly lost was I.

Yet they were woefully wicked men, and often at night in pain

I heard the murderer speak of his deed and dream it over again;

I heard the poor thief sorrowing for the dead self he had slain.

And then it was all like a lurid dream, and I prayed for a swift release

From the ruthless ones who would not leave me to die alone in peace;

Till I wakened up and I found myself at the post of the Mounted Police.

And there was my friend the murderer, and there was my friend the thief,

With bracelets of steel around their wrists, and wicked beyond belief:

But when they come to God's judgment seat — may I be allowed the brief.