~The Poet’s Poet~
He remembers the time he had plenty
In his thirties, now he’s double twenty
A charmer they called him
When he asked them to dance
He has a shiny plate now
Which leaves him little chance.
But it’s said that God loves a trier
He has given no thought to, retire.
Oh, how he wished he’d looked after his hair
Treated it with love and care
Now, he can grow hair on his chest and his chin
Up his nostrils and in each ear
Alas on his head it won’t grow
This battle he just cannot win
So he’ll have to make do, remember the good times
He had flair and a head of blonde hair.
© Chris Black. January 2019
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