In proportion to his ego
Were his "Letters to Posterity,"
Bound and laminated
Engraved in fine calligraphy.
Each tidbit marked by chapter
And broken down by verse
Was treated with profound respect
As blessing and dark curse.
He hoped to be remembered
As one whose counsel soared
To heights of lofty sentiment
Oft quoted and adored.
So every day, devotedly,
His words came trickling down
And landed on some letterhead
Adorned in princely gown,
And then, one day, he died of death.
The facts, I'll not rehash,
Except that tragically, the maid,
Threw out his letters with the trash.