Fred B. Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

So, here you are my friend
so dead and all alone
for you it is the end
a pile of dust and bone.

I had not heard your voice
in, going on ten years
when you had made your choice
we sat, had many beers.

It was America
the land of milk and honey
the need to travel far
at home is was not sunny.

It rained on all those days
and frozen were the nights
your ship left in a haze
with fading little lights.

You sent me a collage
of house and car in Maine
one near the fuselage
of your own aeroplane.

You climbed right to the top
in corporate USA
but knowing when to stop
take time to get away

was simply not for you
the greenback ruled your life
one day she found you, blue
she screamed, your little wife.

Pallbearers were four bankers
each slipped a cheque inside
appreciative wankers
who took you for a ride.

They gave you a farewell
with twinkles in their eyes
as far as I can tell
the cheques were super size.

The reading was a mess,
the barrister agreed
the family got less
due to that thoughtful deed.

They say one cannot take
one's riches with cold hands
this is a constant ache
to rich men in all lands.

But you, my childhood buddy
you did it all your way
you liked your waters muddy
and always had your say.

No doubt, the moneychangers
were told to take the max
(well, you were friends, not strangers)
and sneak it, without tax

so you would be the first
to take the lot with you
the day that vessel burst
and you had turned so blue.