The Graves:

Oh, what graves we’ve dug—what hollow stark graves, (10)
Digging onward, on and on, (7)
With heart under ground—we cannot be found, (10)
We dig on and on and on. (7)

The terror we find—cannot be denied (10)
As down we dig on and on. (7)
For it cannot be stopped—and with each plop, (10)
We dig on and on and on. (7)

We lay down our spade—with hope for an end, (10)
To find we continue on. (7)
For without the spade—we dig with our hands, (10)
Still onward on and on. (7)

Franticly pawing—steadily gnawing, (10)
Continuing on and on, (7)
We believe to stop—but keep on in plot (10)
To dig onward, on and on. (7)

With hands now feeble, and nail striped from finger, (10)
Painstakingly on and on. (7)
When will we stop?—and get out of the plot, (10)
Of the grave that we dig on? (7)

Alas our petty voices carry on
Forever through the weary song,
“Steady on--still on!”
With the melody too often sung
Urging, “onward on.”
Ending where we had begun
With spade in hand—still onward on.

(Amost so monotonous that it sickens isn't it? If it is, why do we live like this I wonder. Often man is not struck by the sheer folly and manotany, but when it is said plain and clear, that we go on and on and on, it annoys and appears odious. Opinions? It is one of my first attempts at a consistant structure.)