WHO AM I?
Here I’m in my dotage,
Eighty years of age,
Still seeking my identity,
Near the final page.
Am I a fiction writer,
My great novel yet unborn?
More likely I’m a poet,
Though my verses readers scorn.
No, I am a soldier,
Graduate RMC,
An officer, a gentleman,
A leader, any fool can see!
For many aimless years
I plied the PR trade
For breweries, utilities,
Any which top dollar paid.
I’ve been a father and a husband,
A neighbour and a friend.
With each puff of wind
To be congenial I would bend.
A man without convictions,
Never forced to take a stand.
I’ve been lucky, oh so lucky,
But characterless and bland.
Do my wife and children love me,
A mere nonentity?
What of value can I leave them?
What’s to be my legacy?
Must I bequeath a mystery,
One that stalks me though I die?
Perhaps they will discover
Who the hell am I?