'Tis such fun there on Sunday,
Monday's rather fun,
she puts on her glad rags before the setting sun,
She dances with babies,
and aged dinosaurs,
especially the old geezer,
who sits in the corner and snores,
he ignores all the noise,
he doesn't moan,
he listens intently in dreams,
to the poets who babble,
he watches the true blood flow,
of the youngsters,
who go to impress their friends,
he sits there snoring,
but he's merely pretending,
takes it all in before his life meets it's ending.
The old chap in the beige flat cap,
with the face of experience,
that's written as a map,
the lines of the motorways,
the creases of smiles,
the eyes rather baggy,
but, still show their smiles,
a lovely chap,
every so often his fingers will tap,
in time with the beat.
It's nearly 11,
the end of the night,
she tried to disturb him,
to bid him good night,
but he doesn't stir,
he met his ending,
never pretending,
that he was getting old,
sat in the club house,
where his body got cold,

He died doing the thing he loved the best,
all going home,
they did bade him respect.
(C) Livvi