Death By Cliche

DEATH BY CLICHÉ

He worked like a dog.
Looked pretty absurd on all fours,
Nose to the ground,
Peeing on lamp-posts.
His wife left him.
Took everything but the kitchen sink.
He returned home to a house with no doors,
No furniture, no television, no bed, no wife,
Smiled like a Cheshire cat.
Stayed up around the clock,
Or would have done if there was one.
He lay on the bare floor,
Hard as rock,
The floor that is.
Soon felt rock bottom,
Time on his hands.
Stayed there until he rolled over,
Dead as a doornail.
The neighbours said they weren’t surprised,
He’d worked like a dog.