When all my waking seeks to sleep,
Curling at the edge of estranged self,
To fall within the arms of half oblivion,
Repose's false son: thief of evening light.

Spiky chin,
I'll take the win,
For you becry,
Your prickled eye.
This just in,
My beards a thing,
And history's not penned by LOSERS.

The next generation,
Tumbles with joy,
Round about,
Here and there,
Into footballs and lessons,
Into paint pots and pencils,
Into the arms of their fathers' Lord,
The faithful one watching over the family,
And placing them on the shoulders of mighty men of God,
So tumble with joy into his goodness,
So tumble with joy into his beautiful precepts,
They will do you good, little ones.