Sometimes, you just don’t have it.

Even when you flip the cushions,

Check the freezer, behind your ears,

You just can’t find any of it.


But given the good grace of years

And wisdom of a humble old hound

Barking at your shuffling steps,

You could possibly face those fears.


An ambient anecdote anathema to your anthem

May sound just as sweet as the threatening thunder

Thrown through your thoughts.


Sweet sweaty brow, bring me merit.

Haggard hardened hands, grant me grace.

Passionate patient Papa, steady my staggering steps.


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