The Grumpy Old Man
Down a way, across the street,
lives the grumpiest old man.
He grumbles at his neighbors' kids
and at his neighbors, when he can.
Visitors are never welcome,
I can tell when I walk by.
His gate is always closed and locked,
His fence is very, very high.
Let me be, is all he asks,
But I can imagine that
it must be lonely living with
no wife, no kids, no dog nor cat.
We don't like him very much,
though we might if he would let us.
Since no one ever bothers him
he can't say that he's truly met us.
Would it be okay to call him,
if I promised not to shout,
but asked politely, at his door,
Please, would you like to come out?
Maybe it would make no difference,
maybe he would stay inside,
but how could we know his answer
if nobody ever tried?
Someday, I'll go lots of places,
make friends with everyone I meet;
I'd like to start with the grumpy old man,
down a way, across the street.
Stephen Brooke ©2011
A poem aimed at children. I don't think it killed any, though.