Digging His Own Grave
I see him when I wake
The tip of his little, devilish blue hat
And what a stupid hat it is
So pointy, and silly, and filled with hatred
I see him when I close my eyes
The wicked smile, the shaking shovel in his tiny, wrinkled hands
I see him dig, dig, dig in the fields
He wants to push me in
He wants to bury me under rocks and soil
I won't let him win, that fiend. That grave he digs in my smallest field will be his own tomb! And then when he is gone, I can finally sleep again, sleep tight, so tight, and no one will call me loopy no more