Sixtyfour

The charisma of his car eclipsed ambition, By a margin that defined his wife's contempt, It became a precursor to superstition, That he'd lose some race from which he was exempt. As his ego baulked at masculine pretentions, While his Missus cringed at alcohol-free beer, The addiction of his sixty-four abstentions, Were the prison-wall-marks chronicling his years. He had dreamt mis-matching figures prior to midnight, But retirement loomed resplendant as his soul, And some whisper that a risk gives birth to insight, Made him seek expanded knowledge as a whole. The excessive engine ate acceleration, Like an orphan who'd forever ask for more, But pathetic was his brief emancipation; When he hit a bus, at only sixty-four.