But I,

I work in his factory

Hi,

Here’s a poem based on a poem.

With respect to Edwin Arlington Robinson

Richard Cory, 128 Years Later, Is Still Kickin’ 

Wherever Richard Cory went,
Necks, eyes, and tabloids followed him:
His cloth announced his house a pent,
Favored styles, suave and slim.

And he was always with the socialites,
And he was always private jets;
But still he walked the playground streets,
Flirting, placing subtle bets.

And he was rich—yes, richer than a king—
And his words and touch were monied:
In fine, we envied his everything
As we wished our bread so honied.

On we worked our labors under rough fluorescent light,
Went without pensions, and sipped our sorry juice;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put his head through a noose.

in wordy wordiness,

Walter