Grandpa Max is grand, jocund and grey-haired,
In the west county was he born and bred,
On his dusty chair,
Deep in a hidden lair,
He whistled softly to the radio that blared.
He decided to leave his lair to stroll,
His demeanour feeble with teeth dark as coal,
Feet wobbly in gait,
He dared not to wait,
Pushing his movement, his farts played a role.
He's used to children aiming darts at him,
And him chasing aimlessly in the dim,
The county clown,
He is always down,
His chances of a moment's peace are slim,
But this day had an air of obscurity,
He sauntered wriggly in the vicinity,
A stern gaze seen,
He kept a high chin,
Grandpa Max strains straight with much agility,
And the children with darts came trooping,
He moved on neither swaying nor farting,
they still cared less,
Made him a mess,
But not on the ground as he was standing.
The ritual of continued until today,
Since he will not change his new way,
Defiant as a newborn,
Grandpa was reborn,
Though blind, he had no obstacle away.
©Ikpeme Kanong
#ANSApoetoftheweekcontest
Nice! The 'of' in S6L1 should give way... ?
I'm still wondering how that got there