The clock keeps on ticking and ticking away
And the poet of the past is the rhymer of today
And the boy of the fifties showing his years in gray
The Reaper on all lives has the final say
In the local bar-room the old rhymer Bill
Is reciting his verses as he drinks his fill
Nowadays he does seem much further from renown
Than when he was known as the laureate of the town
At local poetry readings never asked to recite
So few now interested on what he does write
Looked up to by many but that in the past
For some who are famous their fame does not last
At least his drinking mates his praises do sing
And he feels happy that to them his verses joy does bring.
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