I'm a Spanish Inquisitor's bonfire
with nobody left to burn;
I'm the first eight lines of a sonnet
which failed to make the turn.
I'm an ancient collie who's lost his sheep
and cannot hear the whistle;
I'm an Asprey's silver hairbrush
that's down to just one bristle.
I'm a pair of vintage Speedos
with a split right up the back;
I'm a piece of Meissen porcelain
with a recent ten inch crack.
I'm a wreck of a man who no longer can –
no matter how hard he is willing it –
tie up his laces or put names to faces
or eat up his soup without spilling it.