Terry

His swaddling coat and dimpled toque were all he had for cold Unless you count the sweet round mint his nestled tongue would hold. A limp that kept him seething on was motion to his sail. A bloke like him was tough as grit that women sought his tail. One stubborn man his posture leaned, bent head-long in the wind. Veracious ne're a hotter head. He went on as though pinned. Still gentler there was never a man. A comfort to us all. His charity was next to God if each man were to call.