By Sam Schmidt

Said the little old man peering into the well,
“I’m terribly sorry that you fell,
This well is getting rather old,
Crumbly rock and nasty mold.”
To the little old man peering down, I did shout:
“Isn’t there some way to get me out?”
He paused for a moment, then said with a grin,
“If you really don’t like it, then why’d you fall in?”
I stood there, dumbfounded, too shocked to reply.
Would he leave me here to die?
Trapped inside a moldy well,
Shoulder-deep in cold, damp hell?
“Though I’d help you, if I could,
I haven’t ladder (rope, nor wood!)
I guess I could go find a gun,
But I’m too tired to look for one.”
“A gun?!” I shouted with a start,
“For what? To blow the well apart?”
“No, no,” he chuckled wheezily,
“So you can die more easily!
I’ve no intent to be unkind,
But I’ll leave now if you don’t mind.
Me wife’s at home, the kettle’s on,
I’ve sorta got to use the john.
Sorry to leave you trapped down there,
I’m just too old to really care.”