The Salesman known as Billy Bragger

He sold everything he had
The trousers at his ankle span
The heart on his truly worn-out sleeves
His cuff-links were the barest of bones
He even sold his useless comb

He sold his story to the open market,
To anyone, to the highest barter
No God-forbidden subject was sacred
He had even sold his bedeviled aging soul
For a mighty pile of dirty gold

Audiences full of hangers on
And awe-inspired listeners in
Would gather for the words from Billy the Bragg
As he pomped up his failing, and his sad facade
With his scratch-the-surface ‘me, me’ bag

Bone china plates with made up personas
And women lined like China dolls
He could bang them all in a perfect order
To prove he could extract a genuine tear
And marry one for every year

From even the most discerning eye
Stealing sympathy was his one desire
But some of his relayed misfortunes dire
Had been all made up to get him laid
Telling tall stories that would have paid

He had chosen this oath of marketing self
Offering discounts for bulk buys and pyramid sells
The suckers came, the suckers bought
With promises of kindness, and loving beds
Neatly arsenic-laced with tantric promises of sex

That never quite materialised, in retrospect
But they were hypnotised with wicked lies
They slept ten years, with none-the-wise
To Billy Bragger, and his perfect sale
Now snoring and snorting like a sleeping whale

(And this is our Moby-small-Dick tale)

Have we all been stitched and duped and tried
By a person we thought we loved a while
Who sold his heartache for miles and miles
And finally it is down to dear Billy Bragger
Though I’ve heard that with time, sales of shoes, and souls, gets harder