God With A Roll Of Honour In His Hand Sits Welcoming The Heroes Who Have Died, While Sorrowless Angels Ranked On Either Side Stand Easy In Elysium'S Meadow-Land. Then You Come Shyly Through The Garden Gate, Wearing A Blood-Soaked Bandage On Your Head; And God Says Something Kind Because You're Dead, And Homesick, Discontented With Your Fate. If I Were There We'd Snowball Death With Skulls; Or Ride Away To Hunt In Devil'S Wood With Ghosts Of Puppies That We Walked Of Old. But You're Alone; And Solitude Annuls Our Earthly Jokes; And Strangely Wise And Good You Roam Forlorn Along The Streets Of Gold.