No Title Yet

He is old as the hills, he’s fanatically bent
although the world’s gone queer,
on becoming an ancient who some might think wise;
his failure here is clear.
His doctor’s retired and his priest has expired
and gone to Who knows where.
He spends all his mornings on diets and prayer
and his afternoons on beer.
His grandchildren helped him creep out for some sun.
He found their attention dear.
They left him outside and the winter was long
but it’s spring and he’s still here.

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