THE
SHROUD
Drop, drop, drip.
The limbs lose their grip.
On golden possessions,
Their leaves.
Drip, drip, drop.
The loss they cannot stop.
The wood stiffens up
Like it grieves.
Now glitter and gold
Are pretty to hold,
As jewels on trinkets
And lockets.
But when the leaves fall,
It’s time to recall…
At death –
The shroud has no pockets.
SHROUD
Drop, drop, drip.
The limbs lose their grip.
On golden possessions,
Their leaves.
Drip, drip, drop.
The loss they cannot stop.
The wood stiffens up
Like it grieves.
Now glitter and gold
Are pretty to hold,
As jewels on trinkets
And lockets.
But when the leaves fall,
It’s time to recall…
At death –
The shroud has no pockets.
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