Arthur Flitcroft Poem by Phil Soar

His name was Arthur Flitcroft, he was almost ninety-three
He had a boil upon his bum, and a rash upon his knee
His follicles had lost the will to ever be replaced
And he always smiled a little when he washed his wrinkled face

He once rode on a camel, whilst he served in the Sudan
His battle scars were evident, he was an honoured man
And when he stands to attention, his wife is just aghast
She always thought their nights of lust, would now be in the past