Old Man Whibley

Old Man Whibley
5 o’clock rise
Back stiff, eyes hurt, shoulders and thighs
No more sleep required he’ll insist
Got hair coming out of every orifice
Creaks to the kitchen
Flicks on the kettle
Wakes himself up with some mid nineties metal
Nodding his head until his neck starts to ache
Mimicking the roars his voice naturally makes
He needs the noise to fill the void
Silence one of many things to get him annoyed
Used to have so many things to do
A long time passed now he’s 92
How he survived so long there’s no clue
Sits back in his favourite chair with a brew
What’s on the news?
More doom and gloom
Civil war broken out on The Moon
President Situation still acting a baffoon
Britain has chosen a losing Eurovision tune
Picks up the pen
What’s today’s riddle?
Any to complete that he’s stuck in the middle?
Closes his eyes to reminisce again
Remembers a time he was sitting on the train
Writing a story ’bout his future self
Trying hard to imagine just how it felt
He assumed his kids’ kids would have also left home
He hoped he was still writing his daily poem
But by then he’d be seasoned, a well versed pro
The money never came but recognition he owned
He imagined his tastes were not too dissimilar
The thoughts and views still strikingly familiar
That Old Man Whibley by then completely vice free
And deliriously thought he could be thin and healthy
He pictured the love of his life still strong
And wished on his own life he couldn’t be wrong
He puts down the pen at the strike of one
As Old Lady Whibley hands him his bong


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