(The year was Two thousand and four!)
Postscript; The Following Year

But then at last, the licence man,
Detected Norman, from his van,
He heard the Telly, tried to call,
No other sounds he heard at all,
He broke the door down, somewhat worried,
Into Norman's house he hurried...

It was the smell that hit him first,
And then a nauseatic thirst,
For sitting in his favourite chair,
Poor dead Norman rotted there,
He had gotten very smelly,
Sitting watching daytime telly!

The licence man said 'Holy cow!'
'I'll never get my money now!'
'This greedy bleeder's croaked his lot,
I think I'll leave him here to rot!'
And so he went upon his way,
Leaving Norman to decay.

(It was two thousand and eight, three weeks last Thursday!)

Norman has now turned to soup,
A kind of black, fermenting gloop
That sits upon his favourite chair,
Flies and maggots everywhere!
Telly is still blaring loudly,
Ghostly voices whisper proudly,
'The telly's crap! It should be free!'
'I don't care. They won't catch me!'