As I grow older
Father Time
Taps me on my shoulder
With his scythe
And says “this rhyme
May survive,
Or perchance another one
After you are gone”.
As I grow older
Father Time
Taps me on my shoulder
With his scythe
And says “this rhyme
May survive,
Or perchance another one
After you are gone”.
A lovely verse.
Thank you, Robbie.