The rage of age by Peter Shakespeare Baxter
Shall I compare thee to a child at play?
You are much more stupid and far less petite.
And rumbling winds echo within your pants, I’d say,
Smelling much worse, than any a dog would eat.
Sometimes thy massacred eyes look into mine
Through streaked, flashed hair that needs a cut,
No scarecrow has a mop like thine,
The crows have flown, leaving footprints in time.
The shadow of your grin it will not fade;
Though an image of your youth, I always keep.
O, how I would love to change you for someone new;
That would look like an angel, in her a sleep.
Suddenly I hear a crash, but that’s….Dam
That’s seven years bad luck, and I missed the cat.
For the dumb ……She’s looking in a mirror