Uncle Bob's Words

Words, poetry, stuff like that


I begin to say, “I’m sorry,”

But there’s no one left to hear.

What good does it do, anyway,

To try to wheedle forgiveness

From those too far away

In time and place to feel

My practiced pleadings. Alas.


But, upon reflection, I was

Rarely mean, just sometimes drunk.

You gave as good as you got,

Most of you, yeah, most all of you.

Then there’s you.  I’m ashamed.

God, I was such an utter dick.



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