Mr McAvoy

About an old man I know

His crumbled hat upon his head, a smile upon his face
Mr mcAvoy, heavy boots upon his feet.
A man mid aged and of indifferent race
on the corner of his street.

His olive face all tracked with lines
a cigarette hung from the lip
A suit that had known better times
the whisky flask pocketed at the hip

He's small in stature, wide in waist
always eager to have a talk.
He seems to accept the way his placed
and his curiously quirky walk.

He's fall of stories of years gone by
and wise beyond belief.
Although he wipes his nose on his tie
and doesn't brush his teeth.