" ....Too all good children over four
and under four and eighty
Be ye not over-prone to pore
On matters grave and weighty
Mayhap you'll find within this thread
Some touch of youth's rare clowning
If you will condescend to look
and not descend to frowning.
The mind of one old boy may hold
odd fancies and inviting
To guide a hand unsure and bold
that moves these days to writing
For hair once bright in days of yore
Grows grey (or somewhat slaty)
and now alas he's over four
though under four and eighty.
And so beyond this winding thread
I ponder, am I live or dead?
The thread is but a silver trail
that winds on, like a slimy snail.
And as the clock of time ticks on
I go, to sing another song.