The Man Died

He lies a mangled heap of naked shame dead to nagging worries, thoughts and sorrow a worn dusty dress clings to his lean marrows silent he lies in a noisy street with no name All his lofty dreams and achievements lie quietly with him in his exposed grave all his prayers and high hopes none can save mute the too heap a colossal embarrassment The joy of an only male child is still the cheer of giddy success is silent tears from sobbing hearts are absent only a crowd of sober vultures at his heels Curious feet walk briskly away from him who once lived, loved and sinned like many who now heedlessly lies without a penny facing a shy sky who turns away dim He remains a terrible sight of cold shame putrid morning, a cynosure of attention crowds salute hand over nostrils in petition to our commanding John Doe with no name A corpse of our national soul lies dead in the center of our patriotic eyes