poem for an x-bank clerk

Eliot (t.s.) didn’t only grow old,
he died, and most didn’t even know
that bank clerk
was a poet
(or which one was),
and now I hear people speak unkindly
of him–
they almost spit when they hear his
name–
he wasn’t that bad,
he wrote some good lines;
better lines, for instance, than those
who now hate
him.