Just an old man, sitting by the side.
Watching the day,
Slip on by.
Just a few grey hairs, with a story to tell.
About his younger days,
His trips to hell.
Just an old oak, that pays no mind,
Providing the shade,
While he wiles time.
Just an old chair, sitting in the shade.
I guess today,
His trip wasn't made.
A concrete fountain, the city placed,
Where once an old man,
Had occupied the space.
Just an old man, with stories to tell.
I pray his final trip,
Wasn't another one to hell.