Death of the Salesman
Life’s a journey gentle Air,
Wheels behind the peddle-
That’s what it all,
And nothing more;
Oh, Willy, Willy, Willy?
Though learnt to spite you Evermore,
Yet grief grips me more than before:
Melancholy murmurs
As he honks the pedal,
“Where’s he fled!?”
-“In the Seller’s Home!”
“Why not in this glorious,
Roar’ious Sled?”
-“Because he is gone,
No coupons,
Coupons, oh we mourn...!”
The earth’s a sheet white with foam—
Mirth a heat-bickering call
Dripping deep with more its fall,
Dandelion dead’s the birth of Winter,
What With’-wedding;
Hiss-hissing its lonesome hinder
I hear a cello, or is it a flute,
Hindrance’s brute?
’Cause I hear flute flicked in ageing tone,
From beyond echoes this deathly, dreary mourn
Oh why, oh why is it so?
None were there at Willy’s grave,
Yet not knave, but rocked on brave,
Crashed his soul in melancholy’s gladness—
Someone spare me this deep deceitful, sadness;
No coupons were there, to cash clean him his cellar...
Oh peace be it all for this lone lost, lingering Fella’
Just like the Raven of Alan Poe-
’Tis with me, by me, “Ever, evermore...”
