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.

Scott Woodland

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