The Old Gravedigger
With measured shovelsful of sod
The old man slowly labors,
Making sure as not to trod
On nearby sleeping neighbors.
One shovel deep and one pick wide,
Graves neatly set in rows.
Perfection so this soul who died
May rest in sweet repose.
The old man never slows his pace
His reaper soon made grim,
For he knows the one who takes his place
Soon digs his grave for him.
Copyright © Philip Mygatt | Year Posted 2020
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