Once there was an old man,
an old man with a stick.
seeing him the children ran,
or when they heard the tick, tick ,tick.
Loved by all he was,
parent and child alike.
Stories and poems he would pass,
of wars of swords and pikes.
Little by little as the children grew,
the stories fascinated them lesser than they used to.
Where once there were many ,now were few,
the old man with the stick knew exactly what to do.
For now the children had grown,
he had to leave.
Despite the parent's protests, his time had flown.
He left with none to grieve.
As the autumn came every year,
the children also aged.
Now the old man was a memory mere,
somewhere in the subconscious, caged.
But he returned, the old man with the stick
when the children's hair was white.
One evening they heard the familiar tick,tick, tick,
they all ran to see the familiar sight.
It was an old man, an old man with a stick,
but not the old man they knew.
This was a comrade , he looked tired and sick.
He rested and spoke, although he still looked blue.
"I am the grandson of the man you all knew"
happy they all were when they heard him now.
"I wish to honour him and regale all of you"
The children along with their grandchildren heard him with wow.
Thus continued the legend,
of the old man with the stick,
more of a godsend,
to the children when they heard his tick , tick ,tick.
