#jerry's poem for newt is so lovely

[cupparosielee]

O. Nightingale - Jerry's poem for Uncle Newt

My Uncle Newt, that prince of men

Lived out his threescore years and ten

And then another score besides

And then nine more

And then he died.

A shame to miss his century?

No, I can hear his little cough.

Ninety-nine's all very well

One hundred would be showing off.

A slippery fish, was Uncle Newt,

Though newts and fish are not the same!

And uncle is not strictly true

And Newt of course was not his name.

His real name I never knew,

And come to that I still don't know.

Though living with him through the war

I found out it began with O.

For on brown envelopes I read

In formal letters, stiff and blank,

O. Nightingale. Oh, what a name!

A cry of Keats from Barclays bank!

And what a man! He took me in

A scared and lonely boy of four

And promptly set me writing rhymes

He promised me would win the war.

He paid a ha'penny per verse

On strict condition that they scanned.

Such kindly busy work to give.

He little knew what he began.

Teacher. Storyteller. Friend.

Kindly. Wise. Absurd. Astute.

Well, since you ask me for a toast...

O. Nightingale. Oh, Uncle Newt!