Old Shovel

OLD SHOVEL I’m just an old shovel, worse for wear Long wooden handle badly weathered Yet this job tonight, fills me with disgust It is merely fulfilling my duty, as I must A corpse to bury, limbs partly severed At night in the forest, never to share The hole I have dug is quite deep enough A few feet down and about five feet long A big pile of dirt that I’ve left in a mound It’s scraping earth making an awful sound I’m no expert but I’m sure this is so wrong The body is in now, and this work is tough Shovelling the dirt back to cover the hole It is not quite level, but who could tell I’m taken back and thrown in the pickup If only this task had experienced a hiccup I can only be silent as he knows darn well I’ve never been so ashamed of my role Yet here I stand in the corner of the shed Abandoned, never likely to be used again Maybe one day, some sapling might grow Hoping to remember someone might know Who knew shovels could actually feel pain So quiet now his lovely wife is quite dead