Oh, I think there is a likeness 'twixt St Peter's life 

and mine, 

For he did a lot of trampin' long ago in Palestine

He was 'union' when the workers first began to 

organize,

And I'm glad that old St. Peter keeps the gate of 

Paradise.



When the ancient agitator and his brothers carried 

swags,

I've no doubt he very often tramped with empty tucker 

bags.

And I'm glad he's Heaven's picket, for I hate 

explainin' things,

And he'll think a union ticket just as good as Whitely 

King's



When I reach the great head-station, which is somewhere 

off the track'

I won't want to talk with angels who have never been 

outback, 

They might bother me with offers of a banjo meanin' 

well,

And a pair of wings to fly with, when I only want a 

spell. Oh Yeah!



[Instrumental]



I'll just ask for old St. Peter and I think, when he 

appears, 

I will only have to tell him that I carried swag for 

years,

"I've been on the track," I'll tell him, "an' I've done 

the best I could"

And he'll understand me better than the other angels 

would.



He won't try to get a chorus out of lungs that's worn 

to rags,

Or to graft the wings on shoulders stiff with humpin' 

swags, 

But I'll rest about the station where the work-bell 

never rings,

'Til they blow the final trumpet and the Great Judge 

sees to things.



Oh, I think there is a likeness 'twixt St Peter's life 

and mine, 

For he did a lot of trampin' long ago in Palestine.

He was 'union' when the workers first began to 

organize,

And I'm glad that old St. Peter keeps the gate of 

Paradise.

Oh, Yes I'm glad that old St. Peter keeps the gate of 

Paradise.