Why do we old codgers
Feel compelled to write poems
That force us to invoke
Words like Jeroboam.
Now that’s a large wine bottle
Or an Old Testament King,
But we don’t seem to care
Long as it makes our poem ring.
As schoolboys we recoiled
At the thought of writing verse.
Now we can’t stop
It’s the old codger curse.
I must agree with Bobby,
That old/new friend of mine,
That it simply is fun
To write stuff online.
The readers can’t see us
And we can’t hear them jeer,
So we can flood the ‘net
With stuff like this here.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem