If the Old Shovel Had Voice -Small Edits

My owner Jon has bought a bright new shovel But keeps me in this corner of the barn. I’m very glad to be here by my lonesome, no longer party to his wicked deeds. He used to throw me into his black van every other month or so at night. He’d drive a long ways out into a forest. He’s got a spot out there where no one goes. I’d always get tossed next to a fresh corpse. Then we’d go thumping over back road bumps. Each corpse was young and often beautiful except for where he’d slashed the young thing’s face. His van was spotless. Tarp had been laid down before his escapades into the city. I’d hear each victim’s screams once she’d been brought into his house where torture would ensue. Sometimes they’d have some blood upon their flesh. My blade would get a small taste of that blood when it was fresh and I’d been laid down where he’d left a cut or two on some of them. In fact, if some detective had the brains to figure out the methods of this creep whose madness never gets satiation, they’d only have to seize me from his barn. The old dried blood of victims and the dirt that came from the location of his dump site would be the evidence that they would need to lock that monster up for once and all. Too bad I cannot speak aloud his crimes. I’m sick to death of slashing earth for him. What degradation digging young girls’ graves. Accomplice most unwilling I was made. And now the shiny shovel gets to do Jon’s dirty work, becoming old like me. I send my thoughts out to the universe. Please catch our wicked owner. Make him STOP.