If Ifs and Ands Were Pots and Pans There’d Be No Work For Tinkers
I’m getting older and I’m scared I’ll never reached my full potential,
Don’t wanna end up by being cared for In a home that’s residential.
The sands of time are running out there’s no way I can halt them,
The hands move faster round a clock that works so I can’t fault them.
I could simply blame my injury for things I’ve had and lost,
But look closer and I’m sure you’ll see I did things at my cost.
That time has gone forever now therefore we’ll never know,
If I’d done what with when and how to see where things might go.
So I’m no longer grafting chasing that elusive buck,
But this shit is everlasting and I wouldn’t call that luck.
Something which I like to do which helps me pass the time
Is write poems and I’ve done a few ensuring that they rhyme.
Were I to take my story and put it in a book,
I could embellish the small glory but not the effort that it’s took.
It would be so ironic if this writing were to serve,
As the actual tonic that helped me get what I deserve.
