I'm rushing to the rescue of a fallen dictator,
a factotum pedlar of miscellany and actuaries.
The New York Yankee held a gun to his face
but no one cares to grace his name with ink,
photographs of someone else taking his place
on the great white sharks of the journalist's world.

And there, within the confines of a haphazard paragraph
lies the obituary of a polymath haggard and worn,
scorning the world with polygamy and iron.
A desk full of clutter and crumpled up paper
belies the tidiness of a mind to large for this world.
The universe, even, never forgets someone like him,
naming constellations and galaxies and such
for a man not even the laws of physics could describe.

And a love worn thin with deceit and white lies
crops up on page four with quotes from movie stars.
What do they know? in their fanciest of white mansions,
losing touch on current fashions and drowning guests in swimming pools.
Their lips, wet with drool, gaze lustfully at each word,
of someone else's world turning upside down instead.
First world problems, such heady days indeed!
Mind yer heid, they say in Aberdeen, between oil cocktails and naked women.

And a memory of a girl I knew when I was a pup,
loving it up on a cold North Sea beach with sand 'tween our toes.
Father Time, such a foe, has let the scene adrift
on that rough-rolling sea of driftwood and hazy, lazy thoughts.
I overshot the mark, of that I am too sure,
that girl, now grown up, too far away to see,
as she ran towards the horizon, my heart in tow.
There is a whole world of wonders out their to be discovered,
yet I have only seen what lies beyond my bedroom window.
Lonely and afraid of the coming years ahead,
to be dead might yet be a blessing in a wonderful disguise.