Posthumous Award

The dead can still be warmly applauded Who on us in some field had lorded And his overripe honours remembered Which he himself must’ve numbered. A piece of provocation When earnestly it had been waited for, A never lessening expectation From every supposed worshipping knock on his door; Body movements of the dismayed at a delay, Disappointed reflections on the sun being overhead and no hay. On the palms of next of kin dropped Who would his appreciation voice unstopped But Alas not first mystically consulting the winner, By this omission making himself some sort of sinner. Arrives at a time Winner’s earthly clock has ceased to chime And he had off zoomed for a court business That brooks no human witness.