The Old Romantic
Short of stature, short of breath,
A little bit in love with death,
The old romantic struggles on,
But all he cares about is gone.
Friends and colleagues, enemies,
The women he could never please,
Death has now disrobed them all,
And only he awaits the call.
Here’s the headstone that he bought
So long ago – who would have thought
He’d still be chalking in the date
With no-one to appreciate
Or condemn his morbid wit?
And there’s the other next to it,
Newer stone for sooner use,
For all but he have been set loose.
Death has always been his lady,
Dark and lovely, cool and shady,
But all his love goes unrequited:
Here he lives, alone and slighted.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Scott Woodland
would be pleased to hear