It all goes tha' knows
the memory loss
the failing sight
the sleep at night and
then they put you in a home.

Can't find my own testosterone, it's probably gone as well, but each day reminds me, occasionally,
that at times it's better to look and not see.

Under each rock you will find the place where the enemy sits with a smiling face, the memory key on the odd occasion relents to set me free.

Pontefract cakes and rhubarb wraps, designed to taste nice, are life's little traps.
I fall into it and them, time after time, and after more time I fall in again.

It's getting late too and I can't wait to jump through the mirror that opens the way.