The Miser

The miser pinched his pennies A mime who danced for dimes Reserved in days of plenty For days of rose and wine Planted seeds of kindness Did tend his garden well Toiled forever mindless Awaiting the steeple knell But came a spring of drought Bright green did turn to brown Old miser chanced on doubt As blood dripped off his brow The summer hinted rain In fall the winds did blow Winter froze the panes Next spring it rained and flowed His nest was all but barren The garden wild with weed And days of his preparin' Had all but gone to seed His roses did not bloom His wine did sour and smell No dancing did resume Alas the tolling bell an original poem by the "poemdog" Daniel Turner