Nobody cared a bit, folks said,
When the wicked old man at the gate lay dead.
He had no kith, and he had no kin, And nobody cared his love to win:
Nobody thought of him kindly, none,
For many a cruel thing he’d done;
And many a bitter and angry word
From those thin lips the neighbours heard.
He had lived alone, he
had died alone,
With never a friend he could call his own,
Or so folks thought;
And the coffin grim,
Passed through the gate of his garden ground.
But hush! A requiem’s softened sound
Stole over the silence,
And someone said:
‘Tis the little brown linnet the old man fed.’
Dylan Thomas