In Upper San Francisco

I heard that Heaven was bright and fair, And politicians dwelt not there.

'Twas said by knowing ones that they Were in the Elsewhere--so to say.

So, waking from my last long sleep, I took my place among the sheep.

I passed the gate--Saint Peter eyed Me sharply as I stepped inside.

He thought, as afterward I learned, That I was Chris, the Unreturned.

The new Jerusalem--ah me, It was a sorry sight to see!

The mansions of the blest were there, And mostly they were fine and fair;

But O, such streets!--so deep and wide, And all unpaved, from side to side!

And in a public square there grew A blighted tree, most sad to view.

From off its trunk the bark was ripped-- Its very branches all were stripped!

An angel perched upon the fence With all the grace of indolence.

"Celestial bird," I cried, in pain, "What vandal wrought this wreck? Explain."

He raised his eyelids as if tired: "What is a Vandal?" he inquired.

"This is the Tree of Life. 'Twas stripped By Durst and Siebe, who have shipped

"The bark across the Jordan--see?-- And sold it to a tannery."

"Alas," I sighed, "their old-time tricks! That pavement, too, of golden bricks--

"They've gobbled that?" But with a scowl, "You greatly wrong them," said the fowl:

"'Twas Gilleran did that, I fear-- Head of the Street Department here."

"What! what!" cried I--"you let such chaps Come here? You've Satan, too, perhaps."

"We had him, yes, but off he went, Yet showed some purpose to repent;

"But since your priests and parsons filled The place with those their preaching killed"--

(Here Siebe passed along with Durst, Psalming as if their lungs would burst)--

"He swears his foot no more shall press ('Tis cloven, anyhow, I guess)

"Our soil. In short, he's out on strike-- But devils are not all alike."

Lo! Gilleran came down the street, Pressing the soil with broad, flat feet!