O, give me the firesides of farting old fuckers, whose crumpet kicks off with cocoa and jam.
Eighty? He’s mine! I’ll slot in just fine — take me home.
The Doric for socks? I don’t give a toss, but I see that they’re thick, and stuffed into boots, which are scarily fuzzy with Nik Wax. So who is this codger who climbed Cotopaxi, and is pictured with people strung out on the Picos?
This rampant old grandpa swings monkey ring things, high Tarzans the lengths at the baths.
So soon, he’ll be stripping
off mockings of surgical stockings, he’s ditching his crutches, he’s clipping on crampons —
I fear I’m posting squint…eek.
This poem celebrates my Dad’s hip replacement a few years ago…right before his 80th birthday. It appeared in a Dundee anthology, Seagate III