Ode to Yesterday by Owen Jones


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I felt it once, the old man said,
Lying alone on his thinly mattressed bed,
An Angel I met on the Stairway to Heaven,
I bought her a drink, the pub shut at eleven.

She had eyes of emerald green, hair of gold,
She was a great beauty but needed to be told,
Over modesty and shyness in her soul,
Things could have been different, but now I'm too old.

He sighed a release of satisfaction,
Blood spattered his chin from the next contraction,
Smiling indulgently, he nodded to the sky,
"She loved me", he whispered, with his last living lie