What epitaph kind, to mark thy headstone,
As in Bankok thee lies after dying alone ?
Another Consuming Predator, the cancer that gnaws,
And ate of thy vitals alike a piranha’s jaws.
Your final days, prostrate in a charity ward,
Mayhap thy due, and a timely accord;
Appeals for help fell on selective deaf ears,
While remaining false friends shed crocodile tears.
No alms for the inept, thy best chances were wasted,
By propping up bars while the gin bottle lambasted,
Thy lies and deceits and myriad promises broken
Now reap shallow reward, if this poem’s a just token.
Of my seven hundred Pesos, after eight years unpaid,
And accumulated interest, what collateral was laid ?
Only thy Word, to a once-trusting Gullible,
But we all make mistakes, so mortally fallible.,
A one-off misjudgement, providing that loan,
To stifle penurious pleas from a mendicant drone.
Aye, the Code of Ananias founded your nature,
Perjurious pledges, a reigning character feature,
Of Mythomania’s art, the most splendid teacher.
To Fools thee manifested an enigma, some mystery,
Recounting thy life and a well-paltered history,
As they plied thee with grog, and sumptuous meals,
Seduced to your schemes and investment appeals,
And thy speculated equity ? their Enterprise hosted
Afore the government connections of which you boasted,
The success of business joint-ventures well toasted.
But all came to naught, no substance, just scent,
Ostracized once more when thy credibility spent.
No obituary read as thee’s committed to the ground,
No verger to peal the sad bell’s parting sound,
No wake in thy honour, no memorial celebration,
For thee left our accounts in states of devastation.
As Verses of Mercy, these are not meant to be not,
You pass on owing all, so to a far grave and rot !