Punch Poem by Francie Lynch

Punch was born the ideal child,
Blonde, blue-eyed, average size,
An average brain,
And a touch of the wild.
He had sibs, young and old,
He grew bold,
He was told
But never quite fit in.

Sports talk from the bench,
Smoke, drink and wayward sex
Had Punch desirious
Of what came next.
His family asked:
Why does he carry on so?
Success came easy
As his bronze tan,
Driving red hot rods,
With a blonde or two,
They were all the same.
Punch was liked
When he was tame.
How does he carry on so?
How can he carry on?
His golden hair has set now,
His blue eyes yet hard cold.
Now they call him
Paunch not Punch,
(but never to his face,
we give our Punch a break)
As gravity took its hold.
And Punch still carries on.
How he carries on.