The lonely warden picks up his spade

And works the plot where his master laid

To his dismay the rain pours down

Like sweat onto a thorny crown

Tears drip down his face of white

Like chalk dust as he works the night

He knows his masters secret past

Is buried now like a stone been cast

The calling of one who’s doomed to fate

As he drags his heels to the iron gate

And lays his shovel in the spot it’s been

For thirty three years by the woodland green

The wardens days go on remote

As he works the nights in his worn trench coat

By the old oak tree that’s past its best

At the nameless place his master rests