::


And an old man he is

)!(


We walk thru the rain      we cry to hide
Our utter indifference

To our fate

•

Our love !


Where is our love now that the years

Have told its story so brutally !

;;


( Well yes
                             ----- Where
Indeed ? )


••

AMERICA was dead with the dawn !

                 ( and oh the pathos of its ladies ! )


••


The old man


Indifferent to his fate

Sees


Right thru the walls of the tenement buildings


Into the eyes of every stranger

Into the soul of every life

And he prays but does not weep

)(


Moseys along with the years

With the  songs

And with
the dreams

Maybe he knows something

Maybe he doesn't know what he knows


Maybe he only loves


Maybe that's the thing



.

Courtesy Robert Burns
circa  (25 January 1759 – 21 July 1796)
the National Bard,
Bard of Ayrshire
and the Ploughman Poet.

Two hundred sixty one orbitz elapsed
since brief existence of aforementioned
Scottish poet and lyricist graced Earth,
yet his legacy unwittingly still
enshrined, regaled, warbled...
upon cusp of New Year's Eve,
when revelers sing familiar words
getting misty eyed about
times long past, yet without doubt.

Courtesy Geordie composer William Shield
5 March 1748 – 25 January 1829,
an English composer, violinist and violist
contemporaneous with former
credited with writing music
linkedin with aforementioned tune
posthumous popularity doth wield.

Covid-19 pandemic that
swept across human lot
decrees loved ones untimely
passing, a poignant jot
upon surviving kith and kin
necessitates apropos bon mot
to allow, enable and provide
succor yada yada yada
loosening Gordian knot
constricting one groveling,
muttering, and sniveling snot.

Convenient heft of New
Year's eve lends clout
any other month date day
one could more easily flout
generally speaking/writing
vouchsafing making resolutions
not agreeable with lout
spinning forth verses
as he moseys along
figurative groovy route.

Abstract notion delineating, indicating,
plotting, and zoning passage of time
extremely elusive to grasp at least
for purposes of reasonable poetic soupy rhyme
nevertheless civilizations far and wide
codifying, formulating, identifying
lapsing seconds, minutes, hours,

days, months, years... constituting
artificial construct paradigm
watching, validating, tabulating,
recording, pendulum swinging tick tock
while days of our lives
segues from day into nighttime
as the world (wide web) turns.

Now join in and sing if not averse
despite damning series
(I tip hat to Lemony Snicket)
of unfortunate events, a curse
hundreds of years ago
witnessed by countless
many horse drawn hearse
when "bring out your dead"
what fate could be worse?

Should auld acquaintance be forgot
And never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot
And days of auld lang syne?
For auld lang syne, my dear
For auld lang syne
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet
For days of auld lang syne
We twa hae run about the braes

And pu'd the gowans fine
But we've wander'd mony a weary fit
Sin days of auld lang syne
We twa hae paidl'd i' the burn
Frae morning sun till dine
But seas between us braid hae roar'd
Sin days of auld lang syne
For auld lang syne, my dear
For auld lang syne

We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet
For days of auld lang syne
And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp
And surely I'll be mine
And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet
For auld lang syne
And there's a hand, my trusty fiere
And gie's a hand o' thine
And we'll tak a right gude-***** waught

For auld lang syne
For auld lang syne, my dear
For auld lang syne
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet
For auld lang syne
For auld lang syne, my dear
For auld lang syne
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet
For auld lang syne.