We know of the world's greatest: Steve Jobs of Apple, Messi on the pitch, and Sasha Fierce at the Superbowl halftime show. But I know good. Here's a poem dedicated to my Grandpa McWeeney, who has known the two sure things in life being death and taxes, and has lived with the other uncertainties one day at time. Now arriving at 97 years old, three cheers to the good man:
He was great at it all.
From making sandwiches to making smiles
From riding his bike to walking miles
Cook lemon chicken, that he'd do
Pasta primavera, indeed that too.
He was a classy man.
From head to toe, no denying it.
From shoelace to collar, the perfect fit.
White hat and green jacket
We'll never forget.
A family man.
He combed their hair
A 20 minute nap, back into the lair.
For every special date,
Memorizing the license plate.
A true Renaissance man.
Yet to pull a boast from him-
More likely you'll get toast with jam,
With all your might, I doubt you could.
The best of his greatness, he was so good.
He was great at it all.
From making sandwiches to making smiles
From riding his bike to walking miles
Cook lemon chicken, that he'd do
Pasta primavera, indeed that too.
He was a classy man.
From head to toe, no denying it.
From shoelace to collar, the perfect fit.
White hat and green jacket
We'll never forget.
A family man.
He combed their hair
A 20 minute nap, back into the lair.
For every special date,
Memorizing the license plate.
A true Renaissance man.
Yet to pull a boast from him-
More likely you'll get toast with jam,
With all your might, I doubt you could.
The best of his greatness, he was so good.
