There once was a man

whose name was Alfred F. Jones.

Little did he know

He would be ashes and bone.

He went to work

On that September day,

never knowing

Of come what may.

He took the elevator

up to floor 108.

Shuffled his papers

and thought he was safe.

The 11 on the calendar

was crossed out in ink.

Deeper and deeper

his stomach did sink.

He knew of the airplane

called Flight 93.

That was where

he was supposed to be.

About around eight

his belly began a'grumble.

He didn't even notice

the Tower a'rumble.

There was a huge jolt,

nay, a great crash!

He was thrown to floor,

and heard the frames smash.

He looked out the window

over a sky clear and blue,

barely noticing

the flames orange and red hues.

He dually noted

the fire and smoke.

It invaded his office

and made him choke.

He slowly crawled

towards the door.

Lusted fresh air

more and more.

He stumbled on along down

things once called stairs.

He could feel the heat

burning his hair.

He cried hard tears,

begged and pleaded.

Another rumble

forced him to his knees.

The Tower around

began to groan.

He could only try

and begin to moan.

Suddenly the Tower,

it fell and it screeched!

All the way down

he clung like a leech.

A heavy beam

came down on his head.

The man once known by Alfred F. Jones

was finally…dead.

Arthur Kirkland

came running from long.

No this couldn't be true!

Someone had to be wrong!

His hero was safe,

it had to be!

His hero would come back.

He promised me.

He came up to the ruins

through the white din.

Only now did he realize

the whole world had sinned.

He screamed and he howled.

He lunged and he tore

hoping to find Alfred,

but only got bones galore.

He tried to dig

through the dusty rubble.

The pain in his heart

began to double.

A firefighter came

and put a hand on his shoulder.

But the other stood stock-still.

He was like a boulder.

The man had tears

brimming in his eyes,

for he also had

someone who died.

An American flag

waved above forlorn.

Now everyone knew

we would be reborn.

Far in the distance

came an ambulance wail.

Through the white dust it left

a long lonely trail.

Arthur felt

his eyes drip tears.

It only served

to confirm his fears.

He trundled about

heartbroken and shakin'.

The journey to heaven,

his lover was makin'.

He could take no more,

tired and broken.

Cracked glasses in hand

as a last token.

When Arthur looked up,

and saw nothing but sky,

he could feel his soul

wither and die.

He finally rested,

laid down his head,

upon a stone pillow

and rubble bed.

And Arthur realized,

through the New York smog,

that Alfred F. Jones

was finally gone.