COMFORT IN FAMILIAR

 

You love that tattered shirt,

The one with holes throughout,

New ones fill your closet,

That one you won’t throw out.

I sometimes think of me,

As being like that shirt,

I’ve been around so many years,

Except… I am a skirt.

Call me your Old Faithful,

For that is what I be,

There’s comfort in familiar,

And you find that in me.

When eating out, the same old thing,

Your choices rarely differ,

And I guess, I should be glad,

You still choose me, old geezer.

One of these days, you’ll take us out,

Perhaps to paint the town,

You dressed in your favorite shirt,

And me in flannel gown.

Won’t you be proud but will they stare,

To see the three of us,

You with your worn-out wife and shirt…

And you not even eyeless.

No, not that same meal again!

On second thought… never mind,

If you don’t tire of that meal…

You won’t find me your same old grind.