THE CHURCHYARD c/p

THE CHURCHYARD.

Ants, ants, millions of the little bastards,
Biting, crawling all over me. Why can’t
They show respect of my feelings towards
My parent’s grave? Oh! how I hate the ant.
I hate the weeds that mount this sacred plot,
And the slugs that chew at the precious flowers
Which we provide, remembering we’ll not
Meet again to while away happy hours.
I hate, I hate, yet hate to hate, that I,
In sacred memory, destroy the love
They provided, so I’ll always hate my
Own self, for I know they would disapprove.
I love them, and this is where they sore lie,
I’ll hate all that disturbs them, till I die.