Death of a Literary Agent

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Here once lived Enivel Greenberg
Agent extraordinaire; defender of the weak and unpublished,
Seeker of query letters, whether agented or none.
A warm smile for a salutation
Synopsis be damned by the doorstep, you’re bound to fail
His review. Whether Kirkus or New York Times,
Invitation opened all year round,
Except on Hanukkah,
Genre specified – horrors for lunch;
Roasted Y.A., for dinner;
Anything on the Holocaust for Sundays;
Post-modernism dropped by his office everyday . . .
So many letters I tell you, you’d think he was a hot same:
Addresses often lost in transit
Not his fault – writers never could spell English.
A heart-attack the doctor declared:
Somehow his SPAM cells couldn’t fight back.
Here’s a drink to a dearly departed soul
A good thing he left behind fifteen pairs of shoes,
Mourned by a blog, a LinkedIn and a Facebook page;
He definitely will be missed
If only I remember his name.

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