Ever made a friend and known in an instant that it is you who will have to bury them?
That is what it is to be the gravedigger.
Covering up love, lies, mischief, courage, beauty and innocence.
All it takes is 6 feet of sodden earth and a few years and all will be forgotten.
When graveside flowers grow limp and moldy – vases turning to acrid swamps.
When those who once deposited flowers now call for flowers themselves.
All that remains is a name, a stone or possibly an epitaph – witty or wise.
They too, like you, will be forgotten.
I’ve buried so many like you that they become numbers, figures, a game of holes and crosses.
Yet why do I stop at your side and weep?
Because it was you who was meant to bury me, and now I am alone.
I think this was done around the same time as the Saddest Man Around – must’ve been a time of solemnity…I’m happier now…