The earth is soaked
Low hanging mist
Ghost of last nights storm
And I went to my tools
And I did choose
A shovel along the wall
It was packed with rust
With a splintered handle
It suited me just fine
In this stage
In my decay and uselessness
It seemed a friend of mine
I set off to the woods
For a hill to die upon
For worth in a worthless world
Only to discover loss
On first strike
My shovels blade
Is blunted on stouted slate