Our widowed Grampa on the hill
Is three-score years and ten
His heart though is romantic still,
Next week he plans to wed again.
He has a grey-haired lady friend
They plan to pool their pensions
But marrying is a tedious thing
Wrought with many tensions.
He climbed the courthouse steps today
A licence to procure
The man behind an office there
Was in an awful furor.
With papers high upon his desk
The phone beside him blaring
He answered not when Grampa called
“I’m here because I’m marrying!”
“I want to marry,” Grampa said
Then voice much higher, hissed
“Who do I see?” The man looked up,
“See a psychiatrist!!”
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