An Old Shovel
An old shovel
Shelved under the ray
Of another day
Nearly done,
Though the finch still flies
Otherwise, and the mare
Under the glare of
The darkening sun,
Knows the Old Bright Girl
Has had her fun,
So off to our sleep
Spots we stumble
Until our Final Grumble,
And we need, again,
The shelved shovel
To end our days,
And all of life's
Lovely ways.
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