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Woe Betide
Be wary of the ebb of tide
that strands your woes,
bone-dry up on the high dry side.
See how the winds of sorrow do blow.
Right over the mud flats of despair they go.
Desiccating all remnants of life,
that the flooding tide brought in.
Leaving only a trickle of fickle fate
to bleed back down in rivulets into the sea.
Woe betide the stench of mud exposed
wafting up to sting the nose.
Woe betide, the heart torn forlorn,
By sorrows deep, and sad burdens borne.
Oh, woe betide, the weary worn soul,
That struggles through life's endless toll.
Each step a stumble, each breath a sigh,
Strangling the hope out of dreams, that die.
So get back up, stand up straight and tall
in the muddy ooze beside yourself
and call the tide back in.
Copyright ©
John Anderson
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