Yes, Life Crumbled At His Feet Like Decay On An Old Log

Yes, Life Crumbled At His Feet Like Decay On An Old Log Yes, life crumbled at his feet like decay on an old log that morn was abjectly eerie had a low moving fog and in the distance a low murmur rolled on in In that bleak little world, in the country road a dead dog Whilst in the teeming city was the ever present smog. The dirty man was tall, beady eyed and almost blind one could surmise may he was out of his hair raising mind his apelike features like so much splashed on barnyard paint In that washed up world, was there room to ever be kind Or heaven help us, any leeway to relieve workers that grind. Why does such mysterious manmade happenings so abound is it earth is dying or rare truth never to be found should Godlike justice appear to rear its judgmental head Justice is too often at buried like snakes in the ground And lay there like a useless orchestra playing no sound. Yes, life crumbled at his feet like decay on an old log. That morn was abjectly eerie had a low moving fog. Robert J. Lindley, dec 17th 1983 Rhyme