The Bulldog's still an inspiration to write about, just sorry I see so little of her now.
In late on a late night from a long journey, Barely in the door She's telling funny stories of her own misfortunes. A comedy of errors that harried her homewards. The young woman who will always be our child Has the lot of us laughing When we should be asleep At things that would've driven others To fury or despair But those have no hold on her, Because bulldogs don't give up - They just hold on. So now she's holding on again - A new grownup In a too grownup world. Schooltime over; Lessons now born from living. - But that's all right, Because biting down, holding fast Is what she does - She's gonna chew this bone too, The tough white bone of adulthood, Down to a pile of fine, digestible dust She'll make it all her own The while she works it.
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Be the first to comment on this poem. Encourage this poet.