It was headlined “Paying Homage to the One for Whom Bells Toll”.
Sporting paragraphs of eulogy and lengths of flowered verse,
it was dotted with small photos of a gravestone and a hearse.
“Mister Pins and Mister Needles urge your presence Thursday eve,
for the showing of the body, for a drink with his bereaved.
We must have a round of saucy tales that rascal spawned so often
as our lovely friend and benefactor lies within his coffin.”
Yet amongst the praise and folderol there was no dead man’s name.
I had thought some facts familiar, as my life was quite the same.
Still, I knew no Pins or Needles; I could only bid one guess
that the somber seeming duo had procured the wrong address.
So I called my business partner and I asked if he’d been urged;
when I mentioned Pins and Needles he immediately purged;
“I’m so sorry Master Tillerwhig, I’ve done an awful thing;
I have gambled off our fortunes on a Vegas weekend fling”
“So then who are Pins and Needles” I demanded from the lout.
“They’re the betting house enforcers, they turn grifters into grout.
There has been a disagreement, they think I still owe a tad.”
Once I’d heard a million dollars I was certain I’d been had.
Well at least I knew the whereabouts of “he who’d soon be dead”,
he was staring through the mirror at my not yet severed head!
So I gathered my belongings and I hit the open road
keeping clear of Pins and Needles lest my countenance explode.