I know of a fearsome old man
who keeps his spare cash in a pan.
when he lights the stove
his money explodes
If he survives life then you and I can.
I knew of another old man
Who spent his life aping Cezanne
But eating raw fruit
Which he kept in his boot.
Kept him tied to the lavatory pan
Old men are important to society
though they daily may commit impropriety.
They must break select rules
Taught in tough schools
Especially the rules we call dietary.
I loved an old man with long nails
Though his face was alarmingly pale.
His hair was light blonde
And hung down in fronds.
Till it blew off in a fierce winter gale.
And I also loved a dame with clear skin
With her I’d be happy to sin.
But she was already engaged
Which made me outraged.
However could I even begin?
Old men are of interest to me
I wonder who cooks them their tea?
They gaze with sharp eyes
At the butcher’s meat pies.
They’ve no mother to call,where ar’t thee?
When I was a child the women had learned a kind of yodelling so that we could hear our mother shouting at 12 noon even half a mile awat in the park where we climbed on a metal frame and swung on old swings and played,House,inside the parts of the roots of an ancient tree which were above the ground.Why,I can see it now.Am I dead?