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Poem

His use of English was exquisite
His vocabulary superb
He could use the mot juste
To make his thoughts reverb,
Tousled moppy hair above
A big bespectacled grin
The sort of warm personality 
That could really draw folk in.

And he swore with such panache,
Such flowing verve and style
You just couldn't take offence
Just had to sit and smile.
The intensity of his delivery
Varied according to his mood,
Unaccentuated for a joke 
Severe if being rude.

And his throaty little chuckle
As he looked you in the eye
Always eager and ready
To meet your reply.
A scholar and a gentleman
A wit and raconteur
A truly gifted exponent of 
The art of how to swear.

We dissected many a word
Over many too many a drink
Sometimes being so drunk
We could barely think 
A friendship of the past
Years later still valued
The way we lost touch
A fact so sadly rued

He was my friend 
For just a few years
And as theses things go
He suddenly disappeared.
I'm pretty sure he'll be dead
After all theses years
From far too many ciggies 
To many shorts too many beers.
.
My life has  been a joy
And looking back to the front end
He gave me so much pleasure for
Those years he was my friend.
He gave me his friendship,
Made me more aware 
Of the art of conversation,
Of how and when to aptly swear.
.

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