The Ever Flowing River

Mr. Smith

Every morning Mr. Smith arose at a constant time,
He wore his black suit,
He wore his black tie,
Then he picked his black case;
As he kissed his wife goodbye.

And out came Mr. Smith,
He stopped to greet me morning with a smile on his face,
He stopped at every house down the street,
His black case marching to match his pace.

Mr. Smith returned as evening welcomed him,
He greeted both, his neighbours and evening alike;
With that same smile painted still on his face.

And then it would turn to night,
Which would have been as black as his attire,
Was it not for the stars to light.

Days passed, then weeks,
The weeks choose to turn to years.
But turn one thing, they could not,
Mr. Smith and his constant pace.

One fine day,
Mr. Smith failed to greet me,
He failed to greet his fellows down the street.
There was only one thing in the world we knew,
That could hamper Mr. Smith's constant pace.

"He was a good man," his wife mourned.
"He was a good man," the people sighed.
And I stood in that dry rain of dawn,
Dressed all in black as Mr. Smith once had,
Standing there wondering if I knew the man;
The pelting rain refused to stop,
And I saw it made the gravestone cry.

It declared the name Herman Smith,
For the man had once existed;
But it did not declare the date of birth or death,
For the man had not lived.
Not lived for himself.