The dead man sits on his sofa and watches TV
in his East German tower block apartment.
Cash in the bank pays his bills, no eviction notice here.
What was once a real person is a mummified corpse, all wrinkled and shrunken.
For three years he's been like this, a TV critic.
Bored fucking shitless, dead.
From soaps to films, he's endured them all.
No neighbours check up on him. Police state mentality persists.
If you've no reason to go there, don't!
No one robs his place, who wants to rob from an old man?
Now dead. But no one knows.
Three years passed before TV man was found.
A workman needed to check the plumbing.
He broke the door in and got the shock of his life!
A desiccated corpse smiled grimly at him.
The TV blared incessantly, mindless crap bending the mind of a dead man.
Did the repair man wish the corpse had a weekly electric meter
and not a bank payment scheme?
He called it in and the dead TV man became a celebrity,
albeit a dead one, all alone.