I’m glad he’s old, weak and
Not like he was when young.
With those nasty brawny arms
And long striding legs.
I’m glad he’s up there in his bed and
I’m glad I’ve got the whip hand now.
There he goes. Shouting, always shouting.
Drinks, newspapers, the TV remote-
“Where’s the squeeze box Martha?-
I’m on strike, I’ve had enough
He can shout. I’m going out.
Now and then I scurry round after him
He likes that. I ask him if he wants things
Make him comfortable. Sit and chat.
Talk of the old days, his brothers and the war.
It makes it harder for him when I stop
It makes him shout louder.
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