Think of the old man!

His hair has turned grey,
But, it is just another color.
His skin got wrinkles;
Just like dimples in the moods;
He is a bit stooped;
Head straighter than ever, with pride.

One hundred years is the life span;
Woefully short in the life of the race.
Maybe God had better ideas,
To put down the fire,
Long before it’s time,
With all the wants pending.
What a pity for the pot,
Contains some pure milk,
Yet labeled as curds set to sour?

Treating him on par with you,
Shall be the only saving grace.
After all it was he, your big man,
Suffered your pranks in the park;
Shun him not off the pitch.
Do give him a piece of the action
And I am certain God blesses you
For reaching over to him for His sake.
Sure, you had better know him well too,
For you may reach there sooner than he,
In these days hastened aging.