TO A WASTED LIFE

In this crypt, tightly lipped
And not missed by the living,
Six feet deep an sound asleep
Lies Abraham McGiving.
Quite unknown and so alone
Nobody comes a mourning.
Not a tear shed at his bier,
No flowered wreath adorning.
Born, he cried, grew old and died,
A life without much meaning.
Work and rest and second best.
So little intervening.