Oh, I think there is a likeness 'twixt St Peter's life and mine,
For he did a lot of trampin' long ago in Palestine
He was 'union' when the workers first began to organize,
And I'm glad that old St. Peter keeps the gate of Paradise.
When the ancient agitator and his brothers carried swags,
I've no doubt he very often tramped with empty tucker bags.
And I'm glad he's Heaven's picket, for I hate explainin' things,
And he'll think a union ticket just as good as Whitely King's
When I reach the great head-station, which is somewhere off the track'
I won't want to talk with angels who have never been outback,
They might bother me with offers of a banjo meanin' well,
And a pair of wings to fly with, when I only want a spell. Oh Yeah!
I'll just ask for old St. Peter and I think, when he appears,
I will only have to tell him that I carried swag for years,
"I've been on the track," I'll tell him, "an' I've done the best I could"
And he'll understand me better than the other angels would.
He won't try to get a out of lungs that's worn to rags,
Or to graft the wings on shoulders stiff with humpin' swags,
But I'll rest about the station where the work-bell never rings,
'Til they blow the final trumpet and the Great Judge sees to things.
Oh, I think there is a likeness 'twixt St Peter's life and mine,
For he did a lot of trampin' long ago in Palestine.
He was 'union' when the workers first began to organize,
And I'm glad that old St. Peter keeps the gate of Paradise.
Oh, Yes I'm glad that old St. Peter keeps the gate of Paradise.
