The Archeologist’s Lament (from Isn’t That Gneiss)


And from the ancient chases
Where the masons’ marble grew,
They excavated places
Four-by-four and two-by-two.
They scraped and scrummed in bitumen
With ergonomic tools
But all they found was gristly ground
O yes, and fractured fools!
Here’s a piece of Dirty Tom,
And here’s his middle finger;
Here’s his wife, his sordid life:
Dear God, man, why’d you linger?
Your house, your frame, your thoughts undone,
Your craft is obsolete;
But we’ll be here another year
Until your corpse is complete.

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