His Skin & Bones

Aye, boys, his breath went out at last;
we shall not squander bronze and granite
on what remains -- rather, he shall profit us.
Let us flay him, stretch his skin and tan it,
fashion for ourselves a handsome billfold
from the man who never found a useful trade.
He would not buy the wares our brothers sold,
nor would he sell, but wrote of ruined loves,
ironic ends, the sort of tale too often told.
He never cut the earth with plow or spade;
Perhaps he should be sown for workmen's gloves.

And if we soak his bones in vinegar,
yar, we could make them bend
enough to weave into a creel.
Sure, that would make a fitting end
for him who liked to condescend,
as though he brought us fire and the wheel
with every stinking line of verse he penned.
Bastard, thinking people gave a deuce
about his fear or love or faith or doubt.
Then let him now at least be of some use --
to carry back our mackerel and trout.