The Man Who Sang with the Dead

Through green iron gates,

stands he,

spearing from the ground.

Giant mother shades the grass,

tombs of stone protrude through the moss,

and I sit and listen to the man that sings with the dead,

Shaded-eyed and boots of black,

a twang that sit upon the bird song,

a voice that breaths through the wind,

the head strong school boys stop for but a second,

and I sit and listen to the man that sings with the dead,

flowers of blue fade,

I bet a pretty picture,

one writer one singer,

a place of such creativity,

in a land of complete misery,

one write one singer,

so I'll stand,

and leave the man who sang with the dead.