Jeffrey Schneider’s tale of woe,
Began some fifty years ago.
New York born and there he’d grow,
An ember though he’d never glow.
He knocked around most his life,
Burdens though within him rife.
Had some success but mainly strife.
And found no love and took no wife
He managed stages for awhile,
Charlie’s Angels done with style.
Nice enough and quick to smile,
Not the sort that’s prone to guile.
He made his way unknown, unseen,
And as for jobs, most times between.
He fell into the gambling scene
And but for that, his story clean.
The only folks he really knew,
Knew him when he came in view,
His parents, mom and pop, the two,
For nine years lying with the dew.
He owned a home but lost it when
The bookies came with ugly men;
Jeffrey Schneider left it then
And no one knew for where or when.
Tickets piled for five weeks
On a windshield, no one peeks;
‘Til someone does, a peek they sneak -
Beneath a blanket, his physique.
Shot himself, a bullet kissed -
Five weeks dead and he’s not missed.
Unique he’s not within our midst,
Droplets all within the mist.