Poetry Archives

He burned a hole in frozen muck,
He pierced the icy mould,
And there in six-foot dirt he struck
A sack or so of gold.

He burned holes in the Decalogue,
And then it cam about,
For Fortune’s just a lousy rogue,
His “pocket” petered out.

And lo! ’twas but a year all told,
When there in a shadow grim,
In six feet deep of icy mould
They burned a hole for him.