The Rusting Old Bucket

As the rusting old bucket now stands by the shed In the heart of the damp cobbled floor, And raindrops are falling from dark leaden skies But they'll gather within it no more. For the bucket now holed by the years of its toil That once carried coal to the fire, And so proudly stood by the poker and tongs With its clean and its shining attire. But it now lies unused in the dirty back yard And its last days are fading away, As it stands in the wet of the cold winter's morn And is riddled by signs of decay. The handle that bore all the weight that it held Stands twisted and bent on the pail, And only is used as a perch by the birds For so old and so battered and frail.