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
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