This one’s gotten pretty old,
His hair is thin, he reeks of mold,
He wears a hat upon his head,
So none will see his “do” is dead,
Ten and forty years have passed,
Half a century’s been surpassed,
And still, he’s smiling, wonder why?
Well, hell, he lived and didn’t die!
His books have made it to the shelves,
The better to present themselves
To readers, so his leaky mind
Can now infest more brains, in kind.
His progeny have grown and sprouted,
For those of you who might have doubted,
Marks are carved, the die is cast,
He’s not the first, nor likely last
To bear his name and carry on,
They’ll haunt you when he’s dust and gone.
He’s loved and honored, mostly proud
Of all the things he’s been allowed
To cherish, share, to see and know,
A list, it seems, that’s still to grow.
His final thought as fifty’s done?
I’ll see you all…at fifty-one.