Old Spice

From the decade of first to the now in the term is a bit of reining for the Clyde,

my grandfather was a steady on the lane the loss of his blue eyes with him to the grave,

in bed stuck a while I would give him his daily shave on request for his smile melted my sorrow,

the present today with nothing close to my self is in thought on how quickly the best goes with wealth,

patient he was with a hard life he lived so similar I propose that gave him an inner wise to me,

in depth understanding cadence that charming he would have blown you to Jamaica with a mile,

comprehension with no words the hard work and the horse his stories were as wonder bred to his save.

There was no hint of hatred yet season to stir he showed me the careful roads for disturbance was clear,

the signs to the towers that bridge the drownings a check so that my gear would not squeak,

he managed a communication that stood my timid scared and was able to give a gift so complete.

He was a Pastor, a Minister, he would take me out to the country side visits of requested by I don't know who's,

in the kitchen upon arrival it would end up being the wife of the husband unseen,

in his talent for scent of trouble he would grace the confrontation with style of near,

no weight to the person whom was there to destroy him my grandfather did know of an end,

he taught that with no gossip but with body language of real heart and true sole those fears,

the walks gone for talks while I waited with whom would serve ice cream or moon cakes with suds.

His face was a provide to the serious of peoples denial of painfully and purposely causing hurt,

with temper alone he would without sentence make evident the case of the persons bone,

that the state of the pick was not to mend but to lay waste to the mind of the targeted hymn,

my grandfather warned me of those people that reach out with one spoke and in the next verb annihilate,

to cast pearl before swine was a phrase that I heard it was not his but today I am reminded of this,

for again the hurt of the pain in constant rejection hammers by brain with a skirted type shift,

to the memory of Texas the R.V. in which I was left the terror that I could never describe sharks me,

the tell is of often the last lip desperate of course the failure to have mention the wedding in England,

the trips and the journeys training for ages on farms across the country in stayed,

I would go on but why do more than to say in simplicity and grace,

a rose is a rose with all the thorns predisposed to the garden of the planted root that just bleeds.

I HAD A LITTLE PONY.

I had a little pony,

His names was Dapple-grey,

I lent him to a lady,

To ride a mile away;

She whipp'd him, she slash'd him,

She rod him through the mire;

I would not lend my pony now

For all the lady's hire.