The Devil stood before the gate
  Of Heaven. He had a single mate:
  Behind him, in his shadow, slunk
  Clay Sheets in a perspiring funk.
  "Saint Peter, see this season ticket,"
  Said Satan; "pray undo the wicket."
  The sleepy Saint threw slight regard
  Upon the proffered bit of card,
  Signed by some clerical dead-beats:
  "Admit the bearer and Clay Sheets."
  Peter expanded all his eyes:
  "'Clay Sheets?'—well, I'll be damned!" he cries.
  "Our couches are of golden cloud;
  Nothing of earth is here allowed.
  I'll let you in," he added, shedding
  On Nick a smile—"but not your bedding."