With a soft crunch the shovel hits the ground,

Sweat drips from his cold, numb head,

He works with haste, without a sound,

Burrowing through the graves of the dead

Picking up each corpse in hand,

He carries them back to his log wood house,

Each body in each chair will stand,

They are then dressed in suit and blouse

Excitement draws as the party is near,

Plates are filled with meats, and cups with tea,

The feast is complete and the guests are all here,

The gravedigger knows a fine evening will be

When people don’t understand you, just pretend

For when you have creativity, who needs friends?

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