Monday's Poetry: "The Living Dead"

by Pa Rock
Poetry Appreciator

In today's pop culture the term "living dead" has come to mean actual creatures who have died and are subsequently reanimated only to strike terror into the hearts of normal people by chasing them around in B-movies and eating their flesh.   These rancid, undead creatures are generally referred to as "zombies."

In his poem, "The Living Dead," gold rush poet Robert W. Service reminds us that there are actually people stumbling around the planet, operating below the level of public consciousness, and for many intents and purposes are dead to society.  These de facto zombies are sad individuals who have made their contributions to the world and then hung on beyond their periods of usefulness.   They survive out-of-time, the living dead.

This is a somber topic, but one in which the poet makes light of his ultimate demise.   And like many of the clever verses penned by Robert W. Service, it ends with a smile.


The Living Dead
by Robert W. Service

Since I have come to years sedate
I see with more and more acumen
The bitter irony of Fate,
The vanity of all things human.
Why, just to-day some fellow said,
As I surveyed Fame's outer portal:
"By gad! I thought that you were dead."
Poor me, who dreamed to be immortal!

But that's the way with many men
Whose name one fancied time-defying;
We thought that they were dust and then
We found them living by their dying.
Like dogs we penmen have our day,
To brief best-sellerdom elected;
And then, "thumbs down," we slink away
And die forgotten and neglected.

Ah well, my lyric fling I've had;
A thousand bits of verse I've minted;
And some, alas! were very bad,
And some, alack! were best unprinted.
But if I've made my muse a bawd
(Since I am earthy as a ditch is),
I'll answer humbly to my God:
Most men at times have toyed with bitches.

Yes, I have played with Lady Rhyme,
And had a long and lovely innings;
And when the Umpire calls my time
I'll blandly quit and take my winnings.
I'll hie me to some Sleepydale,
And feed the ducks and pat the poodles,
And prime my paunch with cakes and ale,
And blether with the village noodles.

And then some day you'll idly scan
The Times obituary column,
And say: "Dear me, the poor old man!"
And for a moment you'll look solemn.
"So all this time he's been alive -
In realms of rhyme a second-rater . . .
But gad! to live to ninety-five:
Let's toast his ghost - a sherry, waiter!"