The Collector

There was an old man, a collector of sorts

Who made his living off of the dead

Through the obituary page he'd earn his wage

Buying things that others had shed

Though some said his job was just morbid

Preying off of the people who died

It wasn't a natural death that took their last breath

But those committing suicide

He bought the things that nobody wanted

For most were scared of a haunting or curse

But he didn't care he would always be there

The same day that they emptied the hearse

He was the only buyer at the auction

For everyone else was afraid

He just couldn't wait to steal their estate

And count all the money he made

'Til late one night while sleeping

Awakened by a bump in the night

At the foot of his bed stood a multitude of dead

As his heart stopped beating from fright

Death had returned to collect his debt

For the reaper would surely be paid

He auctioned his soul for the things that he stole

Until the highest bid was made

The old man had turned up missing

They found claw marks deep in his floor

The people couldn't wait to pilage his estate

For karma had knocked on his door

Reviews

[Dark Tower]

Very well written piece.

[xx]

First of all, /well done!/

This is the first time I have seen anyone on WC pen a poem made up entirely of a series of limericks. Now, others will disagree with me, saying that these stanzas aren't true limericks, but the meter is definitely close enough to the original rhythm "standard" for me to consider them at least partway-limericks.

It's hard to pen a full-length story-poem such as this one using such an odd rhyme scheme as the limerick's, so I applaud your grand effort and success in doing so. I've never written a limerick myself, as I'm too lazy to restrict myself to any rhyme scheme, so I am in awe of the above fruits of your ability. I stumbled across no awkward wording - and many of the poems with a set rhyme scheme that I see here on WC fall prey to this malady - despite the very specific pattern, and I adore the very grace with which you tell the story of this old man.

I'm certain that I will never forget those last two lines, especially - "The people couldn't wait to pi[l]lage his estage/For karma had knocked on his door."

The only thing I would suggest you change is the spelling of "pillage" in the second to last line of your concluding stanza, but it's a small error that would have been missed by most. I'm just a nitpicking soul, is all.

I'll conclude this review by reiterating how impressed I am with your serial-limerick composition, and I hope to see more writing from you. So please do share more of your work with the rest of us here at WC; happy writing! :)

-Mina