A COMMUTED SENTENCE

   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 

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