Good Run


It was a damn (damn) good run,
but the rot’s now settin’ in.
I’ve got aches on my aches,
and my hair is growin’ thin.
Can’t remember half as much,
as I thought I used to know.
And the seats in my sports car,
are too narrow and too low.

I groan each time I move,
shards of pain shoot head to foot.
Almost wider than I’m tall,
need a sofa for my butt.
My eyesight poor and failing,
like a mole I feel my way.
In fact the whole inventory,
has seen much better days.

But it’s no good harpin’ on,
moanin’s never done no good,
brings on stabbin’ chest pains
and raisin’ pressure in my blood.
As a wise man once told me:
Don’t go gentle into-th’ night.
At the end of the day,
rage, rage against the dying light.

©17.5.2019 Andrew Robert Chapman


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