Untitled

Should not a man in his ghostly years
Be offered recompense for labors done
With purity of art, sincere devotion,
With intellect and skill elsewise untried?
Not for gaugeable gains, his wages,
But interest unaccountable by math,
A modest accolade in Roman, lower case,
Appearing near the bottom of the bill.
Should he not for ages slaving freely
Receive in turn some gilding for his chains,
Or intoxicating thrash, the pop of corks
Punching through the roar of his refrains?
Instead: in silence, sober and contentious,
He lies in bed inventing yet more lines
That ever more will sleep in bins unsounded,
Suspended animation for his corpse.