Suet Spade

Hold the tallow of creak and squeak

as tiny whispers bleak, o bleak.

I buried you down o’er the creek

as wind of summertime’s morn repeat.

 

Three spadefuls of dirt, a mewl so sweet,

crisp ground, wet, fools were we.

Blight and crash and a flies beleagued,

the resting place of no songs we sing.

 

 

 

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~ by Shawn M. Young on June 5, 2014.

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