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
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