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 commutation.