F O R T Y

First of all, he was living walking dead Out and about chicken without a head Rather than facing fears, he hid and cowered Then found the nerve to care, he was forty years forward Yes, he was getting old, and for life renewed, he had to be bold. Facing fog, demons; living was still his thing, but Only he could reach himself, deep within Real people strut and smile with their head held high To be or not to be, he was not ashamed to cry Yesterday was gone; today he's on podium singing his own song. *