The story, it is but old, retold.
The log pages are torn and faded.
The ink is all that’s shiny and new,
The table on, everything else, jaded.

Come to think, the morn was sure gloomy.
Sordid, sullen and morose.
Rudely awoken to a clanging dumptruck,
Me and my truckful of sorrows.

A long, lonely walk through the slush,
And the thirsty wet mud.
Stain’d me and my clothes and my boots,
Like splattered dried-up blood.

My work tray was heaped, piled up,
The paper right on top, soggin’,
Gettin’ bulleted by many a tear like water drops,
Or water like tears, droppin’.

I sat, prayed a gentle prayer;
Signed, affixed the blue rubber stamp.
Drops gently washed up against the fresh ink,
On the ominous certificate, damp.

The world not worthy of him,
Yet another wise-guy had derived.
And guess had chosen to return,
Even before he arrived.