Having long squandered my all-pleasured time,

Now lumbering on to stodgy middle age;

Leaving youthful bowers far behind,

For the Harris tweed and stiff starched-collar stage.

Driven by ledgers, numbers, the pain-stained ink,

The deadlines, dogma and dreary daily dues;

From carefree thought, to numbing burdens sink;

Yet rare uplifted by hard Sunday pews.

Perhaps I’m too Bohemian for this place,

Suff’ring not quotidian drudgery well…

And lacking patience, discipline or grace—

Some days I swear I’d sooner live in hell.

Give me tall mountains; some vacant endless shore

Where restless roving winds trill evermore.