The old poet at the desk,
Had sat there 80 years,
And never once detests,
The poet life he had,
Since four, which isn't really bad,
He smiled because he was wise,
And looked up at the skies,
And a tear crept from his eye,
As he remembers how old he is.
Life doesn't last that long,
And he just works at his desk,
All tired, and forlorn, and feeling wrong.
He remembers how many lives he affected,
How many made a career,
How much he was respected,
How many people had reappeared,
As young aged poets.
He made fortunes, and money galore,
But he simply didn't want any more,
His time was past, time to move on,
For the next generation of songs,
For the next generation of poets,
Were coming on............
