By Dean Beaty 6/7/06
There were four chances given to three,
To preserve it for posterity.
And though he alone was close to them,
It wasn’t important to remember him.
Not even once in first or middle.
To them it must have meant so little.
One wasn’t known and two were gone.
And one didn’t care a whole life long.
Yet one was ready at beckon call,
But when he is gone, that will be all.
For none will carry in coming years.
What he was given, what he held dear.
What doting love might he have shown,
That special one as he was grown.
But this I guess we’ll never learn.
For that not given cannot return.