He washed his hands many times
He was finicky like that
Served him well
He'd seen what dirt can do.
Many thought him odd
A grave digger so concerned with being clean
But who complains on a grave digger?
After a long day he scrubbed his hands and face
Cleaned the dirt from his nails
And scrubbed his knuckles clean
A fellow laughed and called him a name
He didn't care and went his way
Walking through the neat rows
Till he came to a modest place
He laid down to rest his weary body
Glancing up to make sure counted right
All the white stones looked the same
He checked the name and was content
He tucked his hands behind his head
Reveling that they were clean
He'd had enough of filth
Of mud and dirt caking his face
He remembered it choking his mouth and nose
What a way to die
In a war at that
No glorious demise
Just a muddy pit
But now he was clean
He looked once more at his grave
It had been decades
No one seemed to notice who dug the graves
They only saw his clean face
He smiled and closed his eyes
'Such a better a place.'