Dirge

1-2-3 was the number he played but today the number came
3-2-U
bought his Carbide0 at 30 and it'went to 29; had the
favorite at Bowie0 but the track was slow—

O, executive type, would you like to drive a floating power,
knee-action, silk-upholstered six? Wed a Hollywood
star? Shoot the course in 58? Draw to the ace,
king, jack?
O, fellow with a will who won’t take no, watch out for
three cigarettes on the same, single match; O,
democratic voter born in August under Mars,
bew are of liquidated rails—

Denoument to denoument, he took a personal pride in the
certain, certain way he lived his own, private life,
but nevertheless, they shut off his gas; nevertheless, the
bank foreclosed; nevertheless, the landlord called;
nevertheless, the radio broke,

And twelve o’clock arrived just once too often,
just the same he wore one grey tweed suit, bought one
straw hat, drank one straight Scotch, walked one
short step, took one long look, drew one deep
breath,
just one too many,

And wow he died as wow he lived,
going whop to the office and blooie home to sleep and
biff got married and bam had children and oof got
fired,
zowie did he live and zowie did he die,

With who the hell are you at the corner of his casket, and
where the hell we going on the right-hand silver
knob, and who the hell cares walking second from
the end with an American Beauty0 wreath from why
the hell not,

Very much missed by the circulation staff of the New York
Evening Post; deeply, deeply mourned by the
B M.T,
Wham, Mr. Roosevelt; pow, Sears Roebuck; awk, big
dipper; bop, summer rain;
bong, Mr., bong, Mr., bong, Mr., bong.