Dings In My Paint

Well I don’t know about you long suffering friend, But there’s hardly a day that goes by I don’t wake up and notice the dings in my paint How the sun is now rising up high in the sky While I think of my tasks still undone, That the finish line clearly is someplace I ain’t. Please allow me to move my analogy on Just to say I could use some new parts For there’s clearly hair missing in front, more in back And its color is faded, in fact almost white Though I don’t like to think myself vain It sure feels like that somehow I’m under attack. That the bloom’s off the rose is in fact a sure thing My voice too is beginning to fade For my high notes are lower, my perfect pitch gone And at times even sound of my voice disappears It must rest for a while, it’s grown old, As if musical talents have been overdrawn. Of my trunk, oh my trunk, God, my trunk, dare I speak Of the mess that is found deep inside? It’s a moving trash bin that took one on the chin Down for nine counts and flat on the mat, what a fight! Does man live that’s not stained with remorse And spare tire that fills each woman’s heart with chagrin? But at last as my tale of woe comes to an end, I have found myself feeling relief, It seems possible my life may still produce seed. Though I know that not everyone likes the same tune, Am I dreaming that I hear you laugh? What a joy if my poetry filled such a need! Brian Johnston September 1, 2015