The commentator

We rant and then rave until we make it to the grave which is saved to the end
because the other way around wouldn’t make sense.

I’m quite satisfied that if and when I died they will tell you,
he tried,
could have done better?
we all could.

Laidback? if I laid back any more I’d fall back into nineteen sixty-four and then I’d be eight again, nine and ten again, going through it all again, puberty, the agony of growing up and the scars that marked me, the movie stars that I wanted to see, things that were denied me and not forgetting the butterflies inside me when she kissed me and I thought she’d bit me, ah the memory,

some keep their hair
some keep their good looks
I keep my memories in
forty-two scrapbooks.

I have no complaints.

© 2020, John Smallshaw.