mud from the cemetery
everyday on his boots and clothing
and everyday he'd wash the shovels
muddy water like a river
muddy red waters
the graves are dug deep like a cliché
six feet under
too small for a back ***
so down he jumps
digging deeper
from cemetery to cemetery
in rain or by moonlight
he works hard every night
till his calluses bleed
a muddy white truck
and muddy wooden handled tools
the perfect cover
you'd think he worked there
he scopes the obits
looking for fresh funerals
he prefers meat on the bones
there's no profit in grave robbing
no one is buried wearing valuables
and there's no market for dead body parts
he just likes the smell of formaldehyde
the vacated looks on their faces
and the occasional surprise
when he finds one with open eyes