The Grave Digger

We lowered them in an’ by the score,
as we have done so oft’ afore.
In nowt but mud, in sweat an’ grime,
with shovels, picks an’ pails of lime.

Grey mounds of clay, anomalies
in rows an’ rows of RIPs.
Of acres long an’ acres wide,
where boys an’ men lay side by side.

No sadder toil, from morn ’till eve,
from weeks to months would you believe.
It was as if, no other than,
to hide the shame, the sins of man.

We wrapped them up in rags an’ sacks,
no lumber ’bout to make them casks.
They all broke up, the best of men
an’ some, begad, just bits of them.

Knew not their names, their trades or hopes,
farmers maybe, gamblers, poets.
Waiters, tailors, a clerk, a smith;
their fate, some graven monolith.

Then came a day when there was none,
’twas rumoured that our diggin’ done.
Why tell us now, not years afore,
what all this fuckin’ diggin’ for?

We packed our geer, to home we trod,
just tools we were, ’twas all a cod.
Through whiskey’s tears my horrors seep.
God help me please, I cannot sleep.