You can't tell me God would have Heaven
So a man couldn't mix with his friends -
That we are doomed to meet disappointment
When we come to the place the trail ends.
That would be a low-grade sort of Heaven,
And I'd never regret a damned sin
If I rush up to the gates white and pearly,
And they don't let my malemute in.
For I know it would never be homelike,
No matter how golden the strand,
If I lose out that pal-loving feeling
Of a malemute's nose on my hand.
The Best Loved Poems of the American People
Copyright 1936 by Doubleday
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