The rage of age by Peter Shakespeare Baxter

                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.

Peter Baxter

For the dumb ……She’s looking in a mirror

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