Who Is That Strange Old Man? Poem by Clive Blake

I'm staring at this old man,
The old man's staring back,
His eyes are dull and misty,
His skin is weathered and slack,

Most of his teeth are missing,
And his cheeks are all caved in,
He has tufts of fluffy grey stuff,
Where the hair on his head had once been.

Who is that strange old man,
And why, oh why, does he stare,
Where on earth has he come from,
And how did he get over there?

He has the neck of a vulture,
His shoulders are feeble and round,
Decades of gravity have bent him,
Till his head is close to the ground,

His ears are as thin as paper,
His veins are showing through,
His nostrils are like forests where all
His hair has migrated to,

His body is skeleton thin,
His ribs are all open-plan,
There's something rather pathetic,
About this strange old man.

His stare is quite unnerving,
It fixes me to the spot,
As if he remembers something,
Which I have certainly not,

He surely can't have anything
At all to do with me,
He looks well over ninety...
And I feel like twenty-three.

Suddenly a voice comes from nowhere...
'Come on Dad you old fool,
You've been ages in the bathroom,
And I've got to get to school! '

Oh drat my failing memory,
How fuddle-headed can I be?
That old man staring from the mirror...
Why of course - now I remember - it's me!