Mr. Thomas Allen

The ascent to the top, burdened,

The flight of fright, abandoned,

The peak seems the bottom now,

The damp mark above the brow,

And a fickle flurry of flowers fallen,

The grave marked, “Mr. Thomas Allen”,

In the beginning, middle, and end,

His sore, slimy soul did contend,

Finished now, life in hand,

The searing label, just a brand,

Roses lay upon his crypt,

Where his heart belonged, it was ripped,

The green sponges grow on top,

The grave marked, “an angel’s teardrop”.