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Suits

Old habits die hard: I wake at six.
Today. Then tea. Then fruit. Then toast.
Though I may not shave. Or else I may.
My suits have been dry-cleaned and put away.

I wait to see whatís in the post:
itís usually just rubbish mail.
Out there, the world makes its foray
to work. Will they hang here till Judgment Day?

Wisdom I know is not to rail
at flaws I have no power to fix.
But a pensionís not the same as pay.
My wife says I should flog them on eBay

keeping just one, for funerals Ė the grey.

Tom Vaughan

If you have any thoughts on this poem,  Tom Vaughan would be pleased to hear them.

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