Old Art Baldhead Poem by Kevin Patrick

Everyday old Art' arrives home from work
Wobbling, flustered with an old canister
He walks with consternation back to his hearth
Looking vaguely sullen and uneasily taciturn

Bald as an egg that sat under the sun
With a chipped little moustache pinned under his nose
He looks like hairless Teddy bear Ruxpin
But he won't bare a smile for a dapper pose

His wife is a scolding old curmudgeon
Who berates his existence with every second
His oldest son follows his mother's condition
And makes his profession by loafing debasement

He stays to himself and plays with his models
Constructing Spitfires and Havilland Mosquitoes
Sometimes he's allowed to visit the Legion
But most of the time he stares out the window

Poor Art Baldhead with stiff upper lip
Could never relax in the house where he sits
He lived like the women who lived in the shoe
Trapped suffocating in the land of his doom