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 | The collected works of Ambrose Bierce |  |
[There is a land of pure delight]
There is a land of pure delight,
Beyond the Jordan's flood,
Where saints, apparelled all in white,
Fling back the critic's mud.
Beyond the Jordan's flood,
Where saints, apparelled all in white,
Fling back the critic's mud.
And as he legs it through the skies,
His pelt a sable hue,
He sorrows sore to recognize
The missiles that he threw.
His pelt a sable hue,
He sorrows sore to recognize
The missiles that he threw.
Orrin Goof.
| The collected works of Ambrose Bierce | |