He's senile, incoherent,
Out of shape,
Out of date.
He tips forward
Cause he blows back wind,
And when he mugs
He waddles his chin.
He smiles and squints
Those beady swine eyes,
Above his lantern-like
Satanic grin.
And it's never about you,
When it's always about him.

Flies follow his brimstone smell,
Like sulphur leaked
From the gates of hell.
The vermin covet
His dependable fill
From a shart attack
While he's standing still.

He's a fake from the toe lifts,
That stop forward tipping;
As fake as orange highlights,
And his mental slippings,
He's glued a fake coif of  fluff,
And, if that's still not enough,
He spews lies,
Framed by his wee hands flailing,
His fetid breath exhaling,
Pouty lips wailing,
And his fat *** trailing
Far behind the Leader.

The upper branches
Of the Family Tree
Are visible.
I'm not near the base
Where I used to be.

There are fewer branches above;
And as I move there's
More and less to love.

Some limbs above have broken,
Suffered drought and heat
Through the elements of life.
But the trunk is true, strong,
Stalwart and flexible
As the lineage of its rings,
These expanding circles of life.
And above,
The transplanted branches
Were rooted with love.
Sprouts apppear below,
As further up I go.
And my limbs
Are moving slow.

Our heros keep exiting the stage,
Leaving us their music, art, film, and literature.
Their athletic accomplishments,
Their political discretions,
And hidden battlescars,
Their scientific and medical wonders.
Our ancestors left us the wheel and fire,
The family unit and our extended compatriots.
A good lineage always starts in the cave,
And helps us make it through the night.

The message was as legible
As orbits in astrophysics.
The syntax was true as
A mathematical equation,
Not calculated by accident or coincidence.
And precise, announcing,

HAPPY VALLEY NUDIST CAMP

Boldly, on a southern hillside,
In white-painted stones,
On Hywy #22,
On the crossroads between youth and age,
Doubt and confusion.

The stones are gone.
Picked over, or, rolled down the hillside.
And the Hywy is hardly used.
How. By accident or happenstance?
Or a higher intelligence orchestrated
The arrangement of the stone message.


And this happened outside our town.
On the road to London.

Mammy died years ago,
So I'm older than her now,
Though I never feel this way.
But I'm younger than my father was
Years after his delay.

I'm an aging Granda now,
But I seldom feel this way;
When in my memories,
Where they truly lie,
I'm still their son today.

Yesterday. Today. Tomorrow and the following day.
Last Friday. This Friday. Next Friday and the following Friday.
Last Week. This week. Next week and the following week.
Last Month. This month. Next month and the following month.
Last Year. This year. Next year and the following year.

That's quite a bit we pack in,
In the two years before we're three;
The last decade, this decade... and the next...  maybe,
But the following is for others to see.