The lad played and ran
In surf and sand
Books always in hand
He quickly grew into a man

He begged and followed
Sneezed and swallowed
Bled and borrowed
Wept in sorrow
Always waiting till tomorrow

He wheezed and hobbled
Limped and wobbled
Tried to write a novel
But finally died in a hovel

Now cold and chilled
His grave was filled
No dreams were tilled
Few tears were spilled

The old man was leavin’
His end of many season
It was quiet and pleasin’
His life had rhyme
But never had a reason