he died with money in is pockets

Not all men hear the morrow’s cork crow

Not all eyes that see the singular sun

Shall see it descend upon the hills, low

Because its light has receded unto mankind

Then your ear that hears today’s crow

Is not more privileged than lives fore-done

For look at where we are now

Our souls have been extracted of our corpse

But when he slouches awake at morn

His nostrils have not perceived the days doom

That though the day is golden like a corn

It soon shall fade into eternal darkness

His ear has not heard of the disastrous news

Neither has his flesh the feeling of tension

Because the air has but the least clues

Of where our miserable lives shall end

2

Tomorrow has not his name on its list

Nor tonight; has his bed his masters back

Because the pulse that pumps on the wrist

Is easened of its pound and lifeless

What more joy has a man to feel

When he is least assured of today

For he might start it on his heel

But end it upon the undertakers’ shoulders

But when he washes up in the bath

Or sparkles his enamel with a brush

He has not heard that today has made an oat

To choke the last breath of his being

And his khaki’s are well straightened and ironed

His blazers are well of the costliest quality

But minutes hence it shall be blood stained

Splattered and smeared by its thick emulsion

3

These scraps of time we are given

Is not luxurious for a man to sport

Or ease on the comforts of lavish living

And care-free tardy movements, like a snail

This toil we are assigned forlorn

Under this tedious noon-sun, to scamper for livelihood

With not a knowledge that soon to be fore-done

Is the short spell of our ravished life

Which day of ours is to be the last,

Which minute of time the pendulum swings

Is the least of the woods ash?

After being burnt by the blazing tides

Today has not hope but elergy

Tomorrow is by far the greatest dirge

For what more is there of threnody

Than a man waylaid unexpectedly by death

4

Death is a tricky chameleon, half wise

That sleeps as green snakes under grassland

Conforming the blinding of the eyes

Owed to his trickster approach, and cunning

Blind eyes! These set of lens are

They cannot do even a little favour

So that when his doom is here

He shall give to his love a longer embrace

But when he steps through the door

How else is a mans thought to configure

Even though religion is deaths cure

That assures a man of a soul’s earth

They say men’s souls are at a place

Where they are unleashed from the flesh

But this could be much a meager solace

To comfort men about deaths cruel aggression

5

Unused, the money becomes wasted

Though it was salvaged from a lion’s throat

And the bile of its benefits were tasted;

Because no pursuit of wealth is ever sweet

Death comes about to salvage his own

From the little piling we have achieved

Death has the key to our blood flow

And shuts it down easily at will

After a man has traversed through worlds

With a feet galled, and torn in bits

In search of the well of gold’s

He has only succeeded in finding calamity

Nothing of relevance does money imply

The celestial authorities can never be bribed

For the extension of your earthly tenure

And death collects his wages only in kind

6

Death, what does it profit you so

That though the lea is liquid of dewry

Or the crown as white as snow

You have no joy of mans existence

How ghastly the roads can be

With the life of men upon the wheels

That for a second the eyes cannot see

The vehicle is upturned and ruffled like paper

Then it flares up into blazes

That men are charred like burning coal

And lost in the identity of their faces

Because machines have no verbal control

Now death this suits your amusement

To undo the union of the flesh and soul

And the tears in which the mourners lament

Is the disastrous drink that quenches your slake

7

Heaven has no currency it operates upon

What is for earth is dropped on earth

And when the span of the life is done

Man is striped bare of all mortal ties

The reason that you waste your youth

Or strive through the whole of manhood

As long as you pass this earthly route

Ends as a waste covered by a shroud

Le me live unhappy as a man

If hunger and squalor should squeeze me

Yet if I am rich the wealth is never mine

Because a corpse possession is only its coffin

Then manhood is cursed! , cursed I say

With not a power over himself

For on earth he is given a temporary stay

That soon is terminated without his consent