Penny-eyed the dreamer pays his dues.
In an old suit and a starched shirt,
Arranged to hide the stains of failure
That never fade the way dreams do.
Such fine words rattled for a man
Whose deeds had never come to much,
Nor ever could, the way the cards were dealt;
No aces graced his godless hands.
They swear he was the best who ever lived,
If accolades for foolishness are made
Then crown him now and slam the book
A better man than he cannot exist.
Now bury him with worthless lines,
Untruths have dogged his days to death
And make fine bedfellows for one
Who died of lies and uselessness.