The Graveyard Jackrabbit

Roth Poetry

Here they come again disturbing my tranquility

Sometimes it’s a few; but today there’s a crowd

Not sure what all the fuss is about

I think I will hop over here out of the way

Oh no, I think a couple of them saw me

Here he comes, hand out, like he thinks I am his pet

Seems every time they come here they all seem sad

All dressed up and in their Sunday best

A new stone gets added with every event

Sure is a nice place to live most of the time

Now and then I have to watch I don’t fall into a hole

So odd that they bury those big boxes in the dirt

When they leave, the flowers they brought are left for me

Don’t they know I don’t eat flowers!

Next week the lawn man will come and haul them off

Well, they’ll soon…

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