Old Flanl

Ah Flanl,
you’re no wet dish rag
but you’ll recall that evening
when you were a little down
and in need of a hug?
 
We’d been on the beer,
and wine,
a night on the town
celebrating nothing in particular
apart from the gloriousness
of ourselves
the who and how we are
and what we stand for.
 
And what do we stand for Flanl?
Do we offer our seats
to the pregnant, the elderly,
the infirm?
 
Do chaps do that any more?
 
Oh Flanl, but when we look in the mirror
we espy that we are the elderly,
the infirm,
though, to the best of our knowledge,
not the pregnant.
 
Was it this realisation that dampened you?
 
Was it that those aged oafs
who wagged their fingers at us 
when we were young
and informed us it would come to this
were right?
 
If they weren’t already dead
they’d be saying “We don’t want to say
we told you so but
 
We told you so.”
 
But they are already deceased, Flanl,
so we can absorb some comfort
from that.
 
Let us raise our beers.
Cheers!