GRACE.

My hair has salt and pepper tints
Without the use of condiments,
And winter frost’s upon my beard
Although the summer’s here.

My heavy brow and long eye lashes
Are the colour of someone’s ashes,
And the silver plate across my chest
Has appeared without investment.

My isolated scrotum thatch
Is brittle and barely attached,
Whilst the hanging basket on my arse
Is strictly second class.

But my arms are eager to display
An overgrown tattoo parade,
Unlike my legs which are about
To be doing without.

And shoulders an incongruous black
Of hairs migrated from my back,
That have been seen further up north
Running down my nose;

From where they’ve freely spread their seeds,
And buried them within my ears,
And other places in-between
The decent and obscene.

My shape is changing as my hide
Is slowly being reorganized,
Moving hair from where it used to be
To where it is unsightly,

And where it used to radiate
The youthfulness of my template,
It now is mostly leaden hued,
And distinctly age improved.