Friends in need;

Friends indeed,

Having proved themselves worthy, ever so often,

Tenaciously holding on to a friendship

Better cast overboard.

First on the line, ever faithful,

Is this bleached-up tuxedo

That has gathered more age

Than Methusellah ever bothered to amass:

A legacy of four decrepit generations,

A wwicker providing shelter

For bugs and odds

Rather than the scraggy, shabby frame

Upon which it is its portion to hang.

And like sagging punches, they come,

These deflated airbags,

Hanging inside out for the world to see

They harbour no ill intents,

Having heard no clink nor ruffle,

Foreign or local,

Ever since the moon its tan was brown.

And the soles-

Soul-less, scrapping and chaffing,

Yet blabbing no complaints

Like the lamb to the slaughter,

Direction or distance making no difference.

Having been in the eye of many battles,

The eyeballs continue to make a gradual retreat

Like a disillusioned, battered army

The withering abdomen constantly supplies the beat

Which its owner understands

But is too frail to respond to

Nevertheless reminds him

Of an unended carnal saga.

As for the pinnae,

They stoutly move centrifugally

From their cranial habitat

Trying their hand at blackmail.

Or outright secession.

In spite of my condition,

These boon companions are in no hurry

To bid bye to a friend

Whose utility value is fast depleting.

Friends indeed;

Friends in need.