by Gerard J. Surprenant

He's been grayed by his journey.
He's a product of his time.
He's been wrinkled by the worry
That has crossed his troubled mind.

He was born into a cancerous world.
He was weaned by the Big Crash.
It filched from him his classroom time.
His youth passed in a flash.

Too young to die in Number One,
He labored in the mills.
His sweat produced an income,
That helped to pay the bills.

Too old to die in Number Two,
Once more he worked the mills.
This time he had a family,
Once more there were the bills.

He struggled onward through his life
And was blessed with three productions.
His love was tough but quite profuse,
They were more than just deductions.

His products never came a-wanting.
They had everything they needed.
And when he spoke, he spoke with truth
And every word they heeded.

But fate has dealt a deadly blow
To one who was so fruitful.
His life he never could enjoy,
Now Time's become untruthful.

In his eyes, a sign to see,
It reads as plain as day.
A sorrow that's too late to cure,
He never learned how to play.

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