Stale Bread


The tide rolls in,
big and bold.
Oh dear lord;
we should have told.

Stale is the bread we eat,
moldy and rotten like the meat;

Cold and damp on a rotten cellar floor,
is a poor little child all bruised and sore;
Hating her life down to apple core.
The seed fell out,
robbed and poor.

The door swung open,
and light shines in.
OH NO!
She is now done in.
God forbids that mortal sin,
but for right now her life she wins.