Sir Nicker was an old soul with none but embers aburn in loins near cold
Lucky for him his mind was firm and his sight not dimmed but clear with dreams of lust he still
Buckler forward he was slim as slim and dry as old leaf break
Princely rod was aged and his charge sputtered out still and yet the hope remained true
Thin measly was his ways towards all his hand a fist of turned inside out
Wife daughters knew his ways of great work work was the way to his miserly heart’s purse strings
Antique of old age of stone knew more youth than he if any wanted to ask his age
Worrying him cease not caused his mouth to tighten line mutter his walk and seize his locks of thin in hand of frail than paper loudly shouting bother me not
By
Felicia McCaw
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