Lines Composed A Few Yards Adjacent To Deepdale Mausoleum

      As I wandered through the cemetery, hoping to ensnare grieving people into my spiral of sales, I began to ponder the weather. It was a lovely day, more akin to the autumnal summer of august than mid-october; the calendar's integrity became suspect in my meanderings. Placing this bout of paranoia into the mental file marked, 'to investigate at a later date', I moved on to comparing the day to that of an English summer. The rolling hills and stately oaks lent themselves quite nicely into this growing fantasy. As I squinted into the sun's reflection over the river, I mentally transformed the ultra modern, mini-mansions across the water into regal country homes. My dandyish attire, and equally dandyish state of mind, quickly placed me into the role of a Romantic-Era poet. The imposing mausoleum became my Tintern Abbey as I Wordsworthed myself along the macabre meadow.

      No sooner had I begun quoting choice lines from my favorite era than a young man came walking up the path. Startled out of my revelry, I still managed to greet him quite cordially. His greeting, though slightly less cordial, was nonetheless, heartfelt. “Yo man, you gotta dolla?” Somewhat taken aback, considering where I had been mentally at the time, I pondered this question for somewhat longer than a sane individual should. After my brief and meta-cognitive deliberation, I arrived at a satisfactory, if not wholly conventional solution; I would discuss poetry and literature with the young man.

I, my friend, am on this day, filled with joy in such a way.

An English summer, so divine, we need not dollars, but finest wines.

View this mausi, fine and grand, as Tintern Abbey, in Arthur's land.

And I am Wordsworth, oh so sad, five years gone by, five winters had.

You and me, and those long dead...'gimme a dolla' was all he said.

      It quickly became apparent that my young friend was not a fan of dear William. Vague regret gave way to a new hope as I mentally traversed the endless possibilities within the genre of English Romantic Poetry. I smiled at my new friend, he frowned. His lingering indicated his willingness to learn more about literature, I simply needed to find the right poet.

Wordsworth can be dull at times, and sentimental in his rhymes.

But this genre is quite broad, poems to women, poems to God.

Romantics are all cavaliers, their words still linger through the years.

Shelley, Keats, and Tennyson, come, my friend, carpe diem.

Wilt thou seize the day with me? 'Gimme a dolla', ce n'est pas ici.

      Obviously, this boy did not appreciate the Romantic poets as I do. Perhaps a northerly jump would help to loosen his defenses. Being a proud Scotsman myself, I know almost every Burns poem by heart.

We wha hae in Deepdale stood, hae the proudest Scottish blood.

The pipers aid eternal rest, dae ye ken the tartan's blessed?

Hallowed grounds we now traverse, sealed tighter than a hieland purse.

Sing yer praises tae a mouse, wee tim'rous beastie of a louse.

Nod if ye ken what ah have said, 'gimme a dolla' aw hope is dead.

      I shall not give up on this stubborn young man. He is in dire need of poetic inspiration. His eyes dart this way and that, seeking an exit. Despite this, he remains; his desire for a muse is apparent. Perhaps a more colonial approach...

Once upon a midday cheery, we two stood discussing theory.

Of the poets 'cross the pond, you are clearly less than fond.

What of Poe and Whitman's lines? Morbid leaves of grass we find.

Who could find a better place? Telltale hearts and rotting lace.

Carrion birds above us soar, quote him 'dollar' forevermore.

      If all else fails, one must turn to The Bard himself. Never yet have I seen a sane man refute the genius of William Shakespeare.

If I have this day offended, think but this and all is mended.

I offer'd but a helping hand, to pull thee to a poet's land.

Thou art clearly Philistine, when poets all thou shall demean.

Taxes are now back in play, the government returned today.

My hard earned dollar thou shalt own, through volition which is not my own.

      Once the young man came to the realization that I would not be supplying him with his bus-fare, he departed my company. As I continued on, heavy hearted, I lamented the degradation of society. I entered the chapel within the mausoleum and continued to recite poetry; hoping those long departed souls might appreciate what so few living are able to.