FEB 23, 2016
His home is like an alpine hut,
though town is very close.
He’s got what he needs and nothing else –
more would be just gross.
With a voice that’s soft and low
he tells of climbing hard and long,
and how his friends would pass the time
by belting raunchy songs.
He still has forearms thick as trees
and a growing gut to match.
His head’s as bare as highest peaks,
and memory’s gone down the hatch.
But his eyes are just as blue and clear
as days he battled ice with cheer,
and for death he has no fear –
for he’s the old mountaineer.