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My old mum always told me <br /> | |||
“Son, every dog has its day.” <br /> | |||
Now in dog years, I am 336 years old, <br /> | |||
but I still quietly sit on my mat <br /> | |||
& wonder when it will come <br /> | |||
& what it will be like <br /> | |||
& as the shadows grow long <br /> | |||
& the darkness draws in <br /> | |||
You see, I have this sinking feeling <br /> | |||
that it’s been and gone <br /> | |||
& I wasn’t paying attention <br /> | |||
& I missed it <br /> | |||
I put my head between my paws <br /> | |||
& sleep a little more <br /> | |||
& dream of mum <br /> | |||
“There’s time, son, there’s time.” <br /> | |||
That's what she’d say <br /> | |||
and she'd ruffle between my ears <br /> | |||
And I'd dream the day away. |