Through the Alphabet : The Letter “W”

As he sits and captures all  
Half finish works scattered round the floor    
Artist with a pallette full of joy    
Wry flattery in each new face    
Each wrinkle smoothed will pay its way    
   
For this maiden he prefers a willful look    
Windswept locks and head half turned    
Each feature wrought in pigments churned    
She died so young, so in her bloom    
And at her feet the laurel wreath, it rests askew    
   
The wane of life, a tenure fractured    
A frame of worship from all the tatters    
From the wheel-horse of the easel's propping   
A likeness when all else has been forgotten    
For our future needs that wadding    
   
Give us form when we are nothing    
Weave a testament just more surface dressing    
And look on with dusty sentiment    
 Recognise a slight resemblance    
Carried down throughout the centuries  
A portrait of a relative deceased

They said he died when he drove his wheel-horse off a cliff,
But Clifford had been the type to try anything for a good laugh,
He’d always be the first to slip in a quip and play good riffs,
He had said he’d be buried with his guitar in his epitaph.
The wreath was wrought in the shape of his Fender telecast,
The one he played in worship services playing gospel and blues,
His friends had always coveted the instrument until at last,
Willful they plotted to steal it so they came up with a ruse.
The morning of the wake the windswept lawns of the town,
Seemed a little taller now that Clifford was gone,
And yet his friends' coveting would not wane or go down,
It was a special signed Fender upon which they dwelled on.
 
“Here is lies Clifford Weaver”, the preacher told the grievers,
Delivering a wry and witty eulogy to just four of his friends,
As the signed Fender was placed in his hands like a teaser,
Plugged to a wadding amp for the last riff would be a gem.
Suddenly that old bluesy sound started to rip from the box,
The four friends scared and pale then began to shake,
Clifford played a practical joke saying “I heard you all talk…
But the guitar is mine bitches because I’m alive at my wake!”