As I grow older
A girl’s bare shoulder
And her sweet perfume
Still attracts. Distracts me.
But, when I hear
Her call me “Sir”,
Morning becomes late afternoon,
As night draws near.
As I grow older
A girl’s bare shoulder
And her sweet perfume
Still attracts. Distracts me.
But, when I hear
Her call me “Sir”,
Morning becomes late afternoon,
As night draws near.
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”.