Death of a Titan

The chairman, with his last hoarse gasps, could't even whisper
"Rosebud"
He'd long ago carelessly cast aside
Any such sentimental linkage with his childhood
And he'd never wasted his valuable time
Sitting through the film.

The newsmen shuffled, yawning and joking,
Waiting for some bland passionless announcement
Praying that he'd sf-huffle off in time for the six o' clock
bulletins.
And not keep them waiting on draughty pavements, selfishly,
When the welcoming fuggy pubs were open.

Within the sterile marble towers
The minions, lesser mortals, trod silently,
Checking their watches again and again
While mentally polishing mechanical odes of regret
And swallowing endless sludge-cups of untasted coffee.

The least scrupulous, or most honest, had circulated their CVs well in
advance
For this pseudo-tragic loss, this Death of a Titan,
had long been expected -
Even welcomed in certain quarters.

Those sycophants who'd known the chairman well
Who'd suffered his bombast, praised his ego-driven energy,
Knew that with his unmourned passing the temple would fall:
That his fragile empire would decay and implode.

And then? Nothing - for the chairman
Would leave no relic of true value, no-one to mourn,
Because no-one; yes, no-one, loved him
And everyone (save the chairman himself) knew
That as his final sunbright-second of life faded
He'd pass into the final unknown darkness a sad, naked failure.