My Way

My Way


When I hear the song, “My Way.” I think of the narrow road I used
to walk in the valley of my Shangri-La, with lions in the tall grass
green crocodiles in the ditches and wolves in the woods
My dog came along on my wandering, she accepted the wildlife but had a fear of sheep that stopped feet when she came near
Behind a low wall, an ancient mule lived, belonged to no one but itself;  the animal was glad to see me, knew I had a few slices of bread and kind words stroking its flanks, to my dog's annoyance.
So, we lived, the grapes on the vine full of juice and free to eat, what more can anyone ask for?
One day, when the mule died, they came put a rope on her hind legs, and dragged her to a hollow
a digger dug a hole; I mourned her passing, but the next year an abundance of flowers grew on her grave the nature honored her passing.
Oh, how old we grew the dog preferred sitting on the terrace when
not sleeping on the sofa, I had a scooter and drove every day to my secret paradise, but my visit was much shorter than before
The wildlife had been in my mind.
My dog died, I buried her in a cave between two sandstones; our time together had been too short, but happy.
I continued to drive, but the road was dusty, the wind blew and I had a wintry heart.
So, old man, you did it your way, but who is going to bury you?