Sorrows

At noon, one day,

He rose and went away,

With a handful shovel

To bury sorrows in a well

Days flew past, quick,

Like death on a body, weak,

From the ravages of disease

But sorrows don’t die with ease

He swung his sharpened sword,

Slashed sorrow in the head, yet a wad,

A wad of cash gushed blood

From the severe wounds

Day after day, head paining

From the numerous battles

Some when it was raining

Celebrating nothing, he lifted bottles