He's a funny old man
is my mate Stan.
He picks his nose,
then washes his hand.
He's not from here;
he's from another land.
He is unique;
his own special brand.
He leads his band
as best he can.
He swears like a trooper,
but understand;
not before a woman,
it's against his plan.
He's a funny old man
is my mate Stan.
He remembers the years
when he was banned.
You couldn't pickle him,
he'd have to be canned.
His words are bland.
Their not well planned,
yet it seems his guns
are always manned.
His face is scanned
by winds of sand.
The years of time;
his face now tanned.
And now he walks,
whereas once he ran.
He's a funny old man
is my mate Stan.
(c) MrsMyth
