My Way

My Way When I hear the song, “My Way.” I think of the narrow road I used to walk in the valley of my Shangri-La, with lions in the tall grass green crocodiles in the ditches and wolves in the woods My dog came along on my wandering, she accepted the wildlife but had a fear of sheep that stopped feet when she came near Behind a low wall, an ancient mule lived, belonged to no one but itself; the animal was glad to see me, knew I had a few slices of bread and kind words stroking its flanks, to my dog's annoyance. So, we lived, the grapes on vine full of juice and free to eat, what more can anyone ask for. One day, when the mule died, they came put a rope on her hind legs, dragged her to a hollow a digger dug a hole; I mourned her passing, but the next year an abundance flowers grew on her grave the nature honored her passing. Oh, how old we grow, the dog preferred sitting on the terrace when not sleeping on the sofa, I had a scooter and drove every day to my secret paradise, but my visit was much shorter than before The wildlife had been in my mind. My dog died, I buried her in a cave between two sandstones; our time together had been too short, but happy. I continued to drive, but the road was dusty, the wind blew and I had a wintry heart. So, old man, you did it your way, but who is going to bury you?