The spy is slipping down the shaft

As thunder strikes the sky

He sinks to search for clues

In hope to find out why.


His boots dig deep on vile sod soil

While rats and pests scurry

The cold wet drops come diving down

The tunnel fills with worry.


As like an asp he glides quite sly

Looking for passage over

The slop surging toward his chest

Where lies the green gold clover?


A dose of fear comes through the veins

For hope to come, he searches

A yearn to vanish quickly off

With one last step; he lurches.


The door is locked, trapping him in

A somewhat senseless death

The water rises up; target is found

There goes his final breath.