Somewhere a shadow
Digs my grave. He's in no hurry
But the thing gets slowly deeper.
I try to distract him, pretend
To feel sympathy. "Poor chap!
Out in such weather!"
I offer to trade a tea-spoon
For his shovel saying
He'd be a fool to refuse
An elegant utensil, made
From genuine silver-plated tin.
When he's not looking,
I kick some dirt back in.
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