Who Will Buy My Stuff?

Who will buy my songs
When my breath has whispered its last sigh
And flee my empty bones into the long silent night?
Who will tinker with my pipe
And try a smoke of foggy tobacco from its stem?
Who will take Jimmy for his morning strolls
And let him pursue and sniff Coco with the pink bow?
Who will recite my verses in the candlelight,
Taking rapt ears along the torturous paths of my sordid heart?
Who will shelter my bookshelf from the winnowing claws
Of the old landlady that called poetry lazy
And made me work for lunch?
Who will buy my stories, when my urn is upside down,
Tickling the brave sea I never saw, with the ashes of my leaving?
Who will buy this dead man's stuff?
Put the signpost where they can see it;
We will make a sale, darling; you and I.