Saturday, February 26, 2011


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?

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