Poshlost

A list of names upon his desk
A grim account of what he does
Certain that the dead can't rise
And off he goes to find
More creatures left behind
Then dream or picture how they died
Deceiving those who thought
The dead had only been a burden
With resurrected hope to tolerate
The malarkey of bargains
And haggle over the price of life
Buried in death's gardens
With those who tortured dignity
Who mortgaged love and pride
The Plyushkins the Sobakevichs
Have dead souls of all kinds
At every home in every land
There'll always be a Chichikov
Thriving on their pettiness
Either officially not dead or
Only legally alive