In a funny country with no name
the dead are embalmed in such a way
they keep as fresh as a fallen log.
The living carry them here and there
to picnics or to the cricket match
and they engage them in dialogue.
In this lovely little land success
is all that folks are left with when
they don’t try hard enough to fail.
Success goes hand in hand with shame
but failure has a nobler sort of name.
Success is something to condemn.
For it makes a fool of them and it
chokes them in their dark and dirty sleep.
Failure’s grand and it’s hard and deep.