Poetry Blog by Ged Thompson/ A Liverpool Poet

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Fred

Fred was an old guy with wrinkly hands
He sat on a bench, by the church, near my Nan’s
He had a limp in his walk and a turn in his eye
He never spoke out, just watched people go by

Fred was the type that no one understands
He’d push on his stick to get up when he stands
His stick held a diamond, his neck held a scar
He wore rainbow trousers that looked quite bizarre

Fred, he had storie...

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