With a heavy heart the vicar,
Looks upon the cemetery lawn,
Then arrives the old grave digger,
A cold and overcast morn.

Callused  hands then grip the shovel,
Thus begins the old mans toil,
A bed for the no longer living,
Through hard but familiar soil.

There is thunder in the distance,
As the rain begins to fall,
But he keeps right on working,
And ignores the vicars call.

For the rain is masking tears,
Cried for the first time in his life,
Must make this last hole special,
The one to hold his wife.

A grave of perfect proportions,
A mixture of mud and ****** tears,
Is all that he can give her,
A wife of forty years.

His friend the vicar approaches,
Two men silent in the rain,
Callused hands release the shovel,
Never to be gripped again.