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