It's been three score years and ten
And then some,
Another decade in fact
Since he was born
To a world still reeling from war
Point eight of a century,
Still breathing,
Still moving
Still dreaming,
Absolutely not even slightly
Ready to yield an iota
In anything,
Let alone surrender
To that good night
Which eventually comes to us all,
Is he perfect?
Hell no - in fact far from it,
All that changes is how far,
But even so still doing his best
As far as he knows it to be,
Consistently applying a
World view that does not need
The agreement of others,
Nor yet their approbation although,
Agreement perhaps might be nice
But standing firm in either case,
Eighty years,
Three score years plus ten
And ten again,
And still forever
And for always,
Warts and all,
This man,
This force of nature,
This paragon remains - morst importantly
My dad