He was dead.  Inside and out.  
But still, there was a chance
A tiny hope that if I dug
Him up, for one last glance

At face and form I’d loved so long,
To me a hope, to him a wrong.
And scoop by scoop, the dry cold grave
I shoveled, like some spellbound slave    

And brought him home, to me, ALL MINE
And propped him up to bathe, to dine,
He’s quiet now, so calm, resigned
To be a body deaf and blind.

And when his body start to rot
I loved him more, and so I ought.
And so we live, me and this thing,
His stinking flesh, his eyes two holes
It is enough for me, though,
This dead body with no soul.