He lived on his own till he was thirty-seven,
Above the hairdressers,
And no one tried to interrupt his studies,
Although some of his friends knew about his book,
Or the hit single he had tried to write.
He didn’t get very far, often drank too much,
And intended some day to travel,
Abroad. Maybe Paris or Vienna.
His mother lived nearby whom he would visit,
And she loved him for his tacit efforts,
To please and please himself,
By doing odd jobs in people’s gardens.
Laying patios and cutting down trees,
For next to nothing. What a waste.
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