Distraction

The ticking clock,
The minutes pass,
The old man waits,
And sips from a glass,

He's waiting & waiting,
But what is it for?
He's waiting for death,
Oh my, it's a bore,

His overlooked name,
On death's long list,
Was poorly forgotten,
And sloppily missed,

So now the man sits,
At two twenty & three,
He's waiting in silence,
And not happily,

It's all death's fault,
Distracted, was he,
By a topless girl,
The wife, who is me.

by Maddy Jones

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