Faucet

So many hands that ever turned this faucet

Have gone to rest, they’re sleeping underground;

Or had their ashes spread upon the desert,

With only wind for company, or sound —

 

We all get our few turns here at the faucet,

But don’t be fooled by rust, neglect or age;

How many turns we get, there is no knowing,

Just our few lines, and then

We leave the stage

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