The Death of a Writer

The death of a writer

What a poor soul my dearly departed was,
Always scribbling this or that.
Into a dark alley he stumbled without pause,
To stoop and pick up his hat.

Heard a smirk or a simper, a grin even when;
A villain or two showed up there and then.
Asking for coin, all but declaring so:
What a pity he only had a transcript to show.

Clever with words yet most poor with a knife
Signed by his widow, no longer a wife.