Many years ago, perhaps as many as eleven, I wrote the following. There are some lines now which seem inappropriate, or rather not the way I see or do things now, yet remain somehow relevant.
I count the lines on my hand
and watch my footprints in the sand
and all my schemes as yet unplanned
as they float upon the breeze.
they talk of me in tones now hushed
with words that ramble and are rushed
like toilet paper to be flushed
as I crawl upon my knees.
those humble servants of commerce
who genuflect and promptly curse
I wonder who is really worse
the beggar or the thief?
the lines are so clearly writ
and in those lines, I have to sit
my brain and soul can't benefit
from this lack of self-belief.
they tell me that the trouble is
I'm far too old for this young man's biz
I've gone to seed and lost my fiz
like bubbles in the sky.
any employer now worth his salt
will wash his hands of any fault
and tell me I'm just not his sort
and that's the reason why.
but I simply don't accept these truths
from the mouths of callow youths
whose infant eyes I'd like to bruise
with my fist firmly placed.
experience and ability still
are a worthy tool and priceless skill
and far from being over the hill
it's my industry that's disgraced.