How did Sam Beckett die?
Did he grin, or did he cry?
Done crooning all life long
How life’s no better than a crock of dung,
Was he content to slither down the drain,
True to his pen and fame?
Or did he throw a tantrum, like the rest of us
Who seldom die without a fuss —
Bawling for another day, another hour,
Never mind, ah God, how caca sour?
Speak, scholars; I don’t know. But I do find
Deep in my doggerel mind
That Art is sometimes here when Life is there:
Apple the one, the other pear.