From miry clay of pure earth
A careful mold of subtle birth
Solidified and hardened by the summer sun
Like prized pottery rated from second to none
Amongst the years it was put to use
From water bearing to storage refuse
It\'s sides held like phalanxes in throngs
Patiently awaiting the herald of songs
During ceremonies it was used in awe
Upon it\'s head they\'d usually store
Through the orifice they\'d walk and revel
Offerings in arms for protection against their devils
However as it is in every other story
Like how the man grows old and weary
Once reaching it\'s graceful peak
The water within slowly starts to leak
It\'s face was first filled littered with scars
Friction\'s the culprit upon scratching other jars
One day it took a ferocious whack
When it fell to the floor with a resounding crack
The village elder cursed and spat in anger
Taking out a sticky paste from the sap of rubber
Skillfully he navigated the tributary-like crevices
Putting them together pieces by pieces
Alas even his ability could not match the fact
The broken pot was ugly just looking like that
Soon there were talks of a new replacement
One that would bring along a new state of refreshment
And then one day it all happened
All in a mauvais quart d\'heure
A bullock-boy came with the seer
The latter instructing the boy to clear
So it lost it\'s place where it was once embraced
The people completely forgetting its once-beautiful face
A mere shadow of its former self
It now lies in the site where the undesirables dwelve
