That uptight chap with shirt tucked in,

whiskers shaved,

and trousers creased,

 

using formal speech,

perfect diction,

and impeccable etiquette,

 

responsible beyond belief,

organizing every last detail,

and maintaining order in his world,

 

that steadfast bloke has worried himself silly,

chewed his manicured nails to nubs,

and nearly pulled out all his hair

 

as his utility is questioned,

his existence proposed obsolete,

and his presence only desired

 

by stodgy traditionalists,

rigid editors,

and English professors.

 

After being snubbed by companions,

excluded from clubs,

and ignored by neighbors,

 

abandoned by hope,

cheer,

and humor,

 

he broods alone in his room,

looks around,

and finally settles his gaze

 

on a revolver,

a rope

and some pills.