John had his 70th birthday this year, and I wrote this for him:

Methinks we see you up on stage, a pint pot in your hands,
Singing songs of the olden days, that we've loved since time began.
Methinks we see you yet again, and the years have slipped away,
For it must be nigh on fifty years since we first heard you play.

Now you're threescore and ten, and again
Your music casts its spells,
From Wildernesse to Rochester,
From the Weald to Tunbridge Wells.
Your ballads and your love songs, the choruses you've led
With a squeezebox and an old guitar
-And a pool cue on your head.