The sun beat down one afternoon upon the cabin roof,
The musty air inside lay thick and still.
A summer breeze blew fragrances of honeysuckle rose
That wafted lazily from off the hill.
The woodland creatures roamed that day around the trees and bush,
The air made light the branches of the trees.
But stillness pained this summer time that brought a chilling touch
And deafening silence, hallowed by the breeze.
A rocking chair stood on the porch, a pipe lay to one side
Upon a tree stump cursed with blackening rot.
Collapsing steps and peeling paint and beams in ill-repair
Had marked this woodland home that time forgot.
And there within the belly of this dark and lonely hut,
Amid the dust from summers gone before,
Engulfed in foul-smelling air, the shriveled mound of flesh
Of Hermit Joe lay rotting on the floor.
The sun beat down that afternoon upon his lonely grave,
O'er which no sorrowing eyes had bowed and cried.
It gently heated up the dust and age-old rotting flesh
That housed and fed the worms that bred inside.