A weathering rock she is

They beat the dirt
Out of soiled cloths,
On enduring cement,
Slapped hard on rugged stone.

They beat the dirt,
Off scrappy jeans,
That was bought home
By playful Jimmy.

They beat dirt,
Like pulsing to secret rhythm,
Like an crude Sonata,
A symphony, maybe.

The cloths are less soiled,
The kids, less spoilt,
But who ever considered
The battered, enduring stone?

She’ll one day chip,
Surely crack or slip,
As you beat off the dirt on her,
Will weathering rock take it?


She’s tired.
Carve her, quick.
If you have to excavate her excruciatingly,
You could sculpt a masterpiece.
For else she will weather,
A weathering rock she is.
A weathering rock she is.
A weathering rock she is.

For one day when you are done washing,
And wipe the sweat off your brow,
You'll see a jagged edge or two,
Unconquered by the brutes.

And you'll howl upon the stone that was,
Suspicious of murderous intent,
And throw the stone amongst the dirt,
Or wail to immediately discard,
to keep your kids safe.

Or wash it all away.

A weathering rock she is.
A weathering rock she is.
A weathering rock she is....