It was an Old Man and a little boy
The boy’s name was Troy
The Old Man’s simply wanted to be called, The Old Man
I sat in the Old Man’s lad
It told his story being a chat
The Old Man’s story was his days maneuvering a Motor Coach Bus
He would often tell stories and jokes to all his passenger folks
It would the passengers feel relaxes and sit back and don’t be perplexed
His wisdom being the open door
I had to enter and explore
The Old Man’s driving were journey’s were like picture windows
You had to observe and take it all in
The Old Man’s stories was more than driving, it was action in movement, but fun in entertaining
As a Little boy, for me it was all about sustaining
The Old Man’s experiences were more like chores
Within me, I felt the need to applaud
It was more than his moving wheels
As the Old Man talked further, it was like I was hearing movie reels
He talked more than driving a Bus he also had made scale buses that he personally designed
He even gave me one of his scale buses, and felt the Old Man was kind
His adventures of destination to destination
But as the Old Man talked, I was hearing dedication
Then suddenly, I was beginning to fall asleep
My eyes tried hard to take awake
But Sandman had me there was no more to take
I finally gave in
The old man then said, “Good Night lad, and the end.