Tuesday, December 4, 2012

Poem of the Grave Diggers

He died  but he really didn’t die,
He was buried alive, barely alive, yes
But alive! And his putrid flesh,
Blunted big bones, raised to the
Surface, in which they resembled
The drowned…

The end of life always more intense,
Striking, if not vivifying; but this all
Took place while the grave diggers
Leaned panting on a spade, and smiling
With great gaps in their front teeth:
Smoking and drinking,

Watching the head of the dead slip
Out of the dirt! Wailing in good spirits!
Thus, one of the two set down his lamp,
Then with the heel of his boot
And with much nervous haste,
—but so clumsily—

Gave him a good kick, a lump on the
Dead man’s head, appeared—said he
To his young leaf like friend: “A great
Number of tasks is of this kind.”
And drank down some more ale
And wine…

Without a doubt, the old coot, Empsey
Was deader than a fried trout!
And the only way to end this is:
The Grave Diggers, they drank until
Daybreak, went on home and
Passed out!

#3466 (11-16-2016)
End Poem for: “The Protagonist”