little rich boys follow orders
attend prep school, learn a dead language
put on your suit and tie young man, tuck your shirt tails in
wash your hands, throw your opinions in the bin
little rich boys follow orders
they do what daddy says
then there was richard cory
eighteen years of age and handsome as could be
the one who preferred his own company at socials
who spent his time fending off vampiresses and writing poetry on cocktail napkins
"father," he said, proud and puffing out his chest
"i wrote my own book of poetry, and i think it's the best
i know that the bank is waiting for me
but in my heart i'm a poet, oh can't you see?
i want to be a poet, father, oh please just let me be a poet."
little rich boys do not disobey orders
from the time he could comprehend
richard cory knew being a banker was at his road's end
but if richard cory couldn't write poetry
he knew his heart would never mend
father's fat face transformed into a tomato
"listen, boy: you are my only son
and you shall be a banker when the deed is done
just like your grandfather, me, and his father before
i will not have a dreamer for a son
head in the sky as the world passes him by
while my business is fated to slowly die
no, if a poet my son chooses to be
then no questions asked, i will put you in the army."
that could never be
fainted-hearted fair skinned richard cory
would not last a day in the army
surely he was doomed to a bullet in the head
in his lungs he took a shaky breath
paler than pale, his lips formed a false smile
with a nod, he returned to his room
his words, his poetry-
it was everything, they were everything
without it he was to be another rich boy
following father's orders and saying, "yes sir"
who would grow to be a rich old man with no hair
who would always wonder what he might have been there
one thing was for sure:
if richard cory wasn't able to write poetry
his heart would never mend
this was the end
shaking hands, tears in his eyes
when he was a little boy he said he would not tell lies
a metal barrel in his perfect mouth, so foreign and cold-
father, this is what you asked for-
fingers fumbled with the release-
oh lord, eighteen years young and soon to be dead-
it was no secret to everyone living in the town
when richard cory put a bullet in his head
