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
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