“A very windy day,” you write to me
And you sound all right thankfully
“the clouds belting across the blue sky are wispy,”
You don’t know it, but you just wrote poetry
You and I, we’re mates you see
Unexpectedly, but that is how it be
I worry all you have is rear-view memories
but then you send me mail electronically
full of tales of no food or electricity
but plenty of cold beer miraculously
and I can tell you’re getting on with it bravely
and she’d be proud of you, her Neil Stanley
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