A LITTLE MIXED UP
Just a line to say I'm living,
That I'm not among the dead.
Tho' I'm getting more forgetful,
And mixed up in my head.
For sometimes I can't remember
When I stand at the foot of the stairs,
If I'm going up for something,
Or if I've just come down from there.
And before the "fridge" so often,
My poor mind is filled with doubt.
Have I just put food away,
Or have I taken something out?
And there's times when it's dark outside,
With my nightcap on my head.
I don't know if I'm retiring,
Or just getting out of bed.
So if it's my turn to write to you,
There's no need of getting sore.
I may think that I have written,
And don't want to be a bore.
So remember---, I do love you,
And wish that you were here.
But now it's nearly mail time,
So I must say "good-bye" dear.
There I stand beside the mail box,
While my face is turning red.
Instead of mailing you my letter,
I have opened it instead.
The Mirror
The other day, I happened by chance,
As I passed a mirror, to give it a glance.
And I wondered who that old man could be,
Who, with his mouth wide open, was looking at me.
His bald head was sprinkled with a little gray fuzz,
And he wasn't at all handsome (like I always was).
He looked like a sack of mis-mated parts,
Put together without aid of instructions or charts.
And while I know that my shoulders don't slump,
This person's were misshapen in one ugly hump!
Now, if that was my image, I only can say,
They don't make mirrors like they did in my day.
By John T. West Jr.
That I'm not among the dead.
Tho' I'm getting more forgetful,
And mixed up in my head.
For sometimes I can't remember
When I stand at the foot of the stairs,
If I'm going up for something,
Or if I've just come down from there.
And before the "fridge" so often,
My poor mind is filled with doubt.
Have I just put food away,
Or have I taken something out?
And there's times when it's dark outside,
With my nightcap on my head.
I don't know if I'm retiring,
Or just getting out of bed.
So if it's my turn to write to you,
There's no need of getting sore.
I may think that I have written,
And don't want to be a bore.
So remember---, I do love you,
And wish that you were here.
But now it's nearly mail time,
So I must say "good-bye" dear.
There I stand beside the mail box,
While my face is turning red.
Instead of mailing you my letter,
I have opened it instead.
The Mirror
The other day, I happened by chance,
As I passed a mirror, to give it a glance.
And I wondered who that old man could be,
Who, with his mouth wide open, was looking at me.
His bald head was sprinkled with a little gray fuzz,
And he wasn't at all handsome (like I always was).
He looked like a sack of mis-mated parts,
Put together without aid of instructions or charts.
And while I know that my shoulders don't slump,
This person's were misshapen in one ugly hump!
Now, if that was my image, I only can say,
They don't make mirrors like they did in my day.
By John T. West Jr.
As I passed a mirror, to give it a glance.
And I wondered who that old man could be,
Who, with his mouth wide open, was looking at me.
His bald head was sprinkled with a little gray fuzz,
And he wasn't at all handsome (like I always was).
He looked like a sack of mis-mated parts,
Put together without aid of instructions or charts.
And while I know that my shoulders don't slump,
This person's were misshapen in one ugly hump!
Now, if that was my image, I only can say,
They don't make mirrors like they did in my day.