Writes there a man so thwarted and wary
as he who must pen an obituary?
Daily he sits, as life's merry race
runs past his solemn and world-weary face.
His colleagues rush out for a breathtaking scoop,
while he must stay put to post "Died of the croup".
Pulitzer prizes rain down on the head
of many, but not on the clerk for the dead.
He only knows endings, the sunset regime
that curtails the laughter and curdles the dream.
And when his time comes and he goes out to sea,
no one's at hand to write his eulogy . . .
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