The dirt rises far up above my head
The worms laugh; I will soon be dead.
My shovel is far beyond my grasp
Filth fills up my lungs as I gasp.
Who’s hand to lift me from this cold grave?
Who’s but the one which to all I gave.
But this saving hand no longer comes
Dirt continues to gag my lungs.
How can I escape this hole I made
When I created this fate

With shovel and *****?