Though he dabbled in figures of speech,
His fall was hardly metaphorical; more the garden variety
Really, a plummet from a high ladder while trimming trees,
The side of his skull crushed by the water meter.
For three days he held on, then they pulled the plug,
Burying him in the ground, a medium he loved to potter in.
At the funeral speeches a few days’ later, all his faults
Forgotten, he came up smelling roses.