Black Beetles in Amber

  Boruck and Waterman upon their grills
    In Hades lay, with many a sigh and groan,
    Hotly disputing, for each swore his own
  Were clearly keener than the other's ills.
    And, truly, each had much to boast of—bone
  And sinew, muscle, tallow, nerve and skin,
  Blood in the vein and marrow in the shin,
    Teeth, eyes and other organs (for the soul
  Has all of these and even a wagging chin)
    Blazing and coruscating like a coal!
  For Lower Sacramento, you remember,
  Has trying weather, even in mid-December.

  Now this occurred in the far future. All
    Mankind had been a million ages dead,
    And each to her reward above had sped,
  Each to his punishment below,—I call
    That quite a just arrangement. As I said,
  Boruck and Waterman in warmest pain
  Crackled and sizzed with all their might and main.
    For, when on earth, they'd freed a scurvy host
  Of crooks from the State prison, who again
    Had robbed and ravaged the Pacific Coast
  And (such the felon's predatory nature)
  Even got themselves into the Legislature.

  So Waterman and Boruck lay and roared
    In Hades. It is true all other males
    Felt the like flames and uttered equal wails,
  But did not suffer them; whereas they bored
    Each one the other. But indeed my tale's
  Not getting on at all. They lay and browned
  Till Boruck (who long since his teeth had ground
    Away and spoke Gum Arabic and made
  Stump speeches even in praying) looked around
    And said to Bob's incinerated shade:
  "Your Excellency, this is mighty hard on
  The inventors of the unpardonable pardon."

  The other soul—his right hand all aflame,
    For 'twas with that he'd chiefly sinned, although
    His tongue, too, like a wick was working woe
  To the reserve of tallow in his frame—
    Said, with a sputtering, uncertain flow,
  And with a gesture like a shaken torch:
  "Yes, but I'm sure we'll not much longer scorch.
    Although this climate is not good for Hope,
  Whose joyous wing 'twould singe, I think the porch
    Of Hell we'll quit with a pacific slope.
  Last century I signified repentance
  And asked for commutation of our sentence."

  Even as he spoke, the form of Satan loomed
    In sight, all crimson with reflections's fire,
    Like some tall tower or cathedral spire
  Touched by the dawn while all the earth is gloomed
    In mists and shadows of the night time. "Sire,"
  Said Waterman, his agitable wick
  Still sputtering, "what calls you back so quick?
    It scarcely was a century ago
  You left us." "I have come to bring," said Nick,
    "St. Peter's answer (he is never slow
  In correspondence) to your application
  For pardon—pardon me!—for commutation.

  "He says that he's instructed to reply
    (And he has so instructed me) that sin
    Like yours—and this poor gentleman's who's in
  For bad advice to you—comes rather high;
    But since, apparently, you both begin
  To feel some pious promptings to the right,
  And fain would turn your faces to the light,
    Eternity seems all too long a term.
  So 'tis commuted to one-half. I'm quite
    Prepared, when that expires, to free the worm
  And quench the fire." And, civilly retreating,
  He left them holding their protracted meeting.