We chaired you through the market-place;
Man and boy stood cheering by,
And home we brought you shoulder-high.
To-day, the road all salesmen come,
Shoulder-high we bring you home,
And set you at your threshold down,
Infomercialman of a stiller crown.
Smart lad, to slip betimes away
From fields where glory does not stay
And early though the laurel grows
It withers quicker than a rose.
Eyes the shady night has shut
Cannot see the record cut,
And silence sounds no worse than cheers
You outlived the Prince of Queers;
Now you will not swell the rout
Of lads that wore their clothing out,
Washers whom the colours ran
And the clothes died before the man.
So set, before its echoes fade,
The fleet foot on the sill of shade,
And hold to the low lintel up
The still-defended peddlers' cup.
And around that early-laurelled head
Will flock to gaze the strengthless dead,
And find unwithered on its dings
The garland briefer than a King's.
Billy Mays
Rest in Peace
