The nice old man

The nice old man lived in a not-so-nice town,

A place of ungrateful hearts and hollow frowns.

He helped them all - no task too small -

Yet they barely noticed, if at all.

He toiled each day with quiet grace,

A weary smile fixed on his face.

They shrugged, they sneered, they turned away,

While he gave more with each new day.

They never praised, nor thanked, nor cared,

Though all he had, he gladly shared.

He labored on through pain and rain,

Through aching bones and silent strain.

Each year they held a grand parade,

An empty show, a sweet charade.

Awards for "best" they gave with pride,

But truth and worth they brushed aside.

The nice old man would always try

To win that ribbon, reach the sky.

He'd smile wide and hold his breath,

But watched it go to lies and theft.

And yet he hoped - year after year -

That someone's heart might see him clear.

But when the day arrived anew,

He didn't come. No one knew.

They laughed it off and raised their wine,

Feasting under lights that shine.

But when they stumbled home that night,

Their world had shifted out of sight.

The shelves were bare, the vaults were dry,

Their riches gone - no reason why.

The man they mocked had packed and gone,

Their trust betrayed, their safety gone.

Before he came to town, they say,

He'd lived and schemed a crooked way.

Among the thieves, he'd found his path -

A master of the silent craft.

The kind old man, so full of grace,

Had worn a mask upon his face.

Each gentle act, each kindly chore,

A step inside their homes once more.

He fixed their clocks, repaired their doors,

While scoping out their treasures' stores.

He trimmed their trees, he swept their floors,

And memorized their vaults and drawers.

Their silver spoons, their golden rings,

Their heirlooms, art, and precious things -

He cataloged with sharpened eye,

Then smiled and waved a soft goodbye.

The limp he feigned, the shaky hand,

A part of his well-rehearsed plan.

He moved with stealth, a shadowed thief,

Beneath the cloak of kind belief.

Their trust became his master key,

Unlocking doors so easily.

The "thankless" town that scorned his care

Had made his work a light affair.

Each coin he took, each jewel he found,

Was tucked away without a sound.

They toasted lies, ignored the truth,

And missed the wisdom of their youth.

He stole their pride, he stole their gold,

Their paintings aged and stories old.

The portraits that they hung with pride

Were gone before the morning tide.

He vanished like a whispered tale,

A ship departing with full sail.

He left no note, he left no name,

But every home had felt the same.

He took from those who never gave,

Who'd never once tried to behave.

They fed their egos, drank their fame,

But never knew the old man's name.

And on a shore far, far away,

He counts his gold at close of day.

No longer kind, no longer poor,

He rests behind a bolted door.

The moral here is bittersweet -

Not every smile means pure deceit.

Yet kindness, too, can wear a mask,

To hide the heart behind the task.

So praise the good, and do your part,

Lest you lose all to a kind old heart.

For those you scorn, ignore, or slight,

Might rob you blind some quiet night.

The Crazy old man and social media

The crazy old man reached for his phone,

Alone in his cluttered breakfast zone.

He scrolled through feeds with empty eyes,

Absorbing half-truths, rumors, lies.

He honed in on the strangest threads,

Conspiracies that warped his head.

He surfed the net with casual flair,

Unbothered by his family's care.

His children warned of what they saw,

Of fake news dressed in logic's law.

His grandkids sighed, their voices hushed -

Their love for him now strained and crushed.

But he would laugh and roll his eyes,

Consumed by tales and thin disguise.

While chomping toast and sipping tea,

He spouted claims that made minds flee.

His breakfast rich in fiber brown

Prepared his guts to break things down.

He shuffled to the bathroom door,

Then sat upon his throne of lore.

Fettered to a self-cleaning seat,

He strained and grunted through the heat.

While steaming thoughts escaped his mind,

Delusions formed and intertwined.

Theories flowed from both ends raw,

As logic fled and flushed the law.

He spoke of aliens, hidden cures,

Of microchips and secret lures.

A doctor might have wept to hear

The thoughts he held so loud and clear.

One might've asked, "Is he insane?"

And scribbled notes to ease the strain.

But he would laugh, reject the pills,

Refuse all treatment, dodge the bills.

His mind, a tangle of mistrust,

Still sharp enough to make a fuss.

He finished up and wiped with pride,

Then washed his hands (but not with stride).

He grabbed his coat and headed out,

Still filled with rage and endless doubt.

He walked to get his midday snack,

A podcast prepped to play backtrack.

His favorite host would scream and preach,

Against all science he could reach.

A voice that ranted, mocked the mask,

And made defiance seem a task.

The man walked on, his face exposed,

Ignoring signs, both clear and closed.

An employee at the door stood near,

And offered him a mask with fear.

But he refused with snarling lips,

While others shook their heads in clips.

They stared at him - this relic bold,

His stubborn face, both red and old.

Beneath a tattered MAGA hat,

He bellowed out his stance at that.

The manager stepped in to speak,

His tone polite, his voice not weak.

"Please wear a mask, sir, just for now."

But the old man raised a wrinkled brow.

"Cowards!" he cried. "This virus fake!

A hoax designed to make us break!"

The crowd around began to shift,

As tensions grew, emotions rift.

The store had called the cops by then,

Prepared to deal with angry men.

The officer arrived with calm,

Still hoping for a quiet balm.

"Sir, wear a mask or leave this place,"

He said, firm lines upon his face.

But still the old man stood his ground,

And yelled until he heard the sound -

A click, a zap, a jolting hum,

A taser's sting struck where he'd come.

His body twitched, then hit the ground,

The crowd around just watched, spellbound.

The cuffs went on, the rant went on,

Though most of his control was gone.

They hauled him off, still mid-belief,

A jail-bound, raging internet chief.

Inside a cell, he grumbled low,

Still muttering about the show.

Then pulled his phone with practiced flair,

And tweeted rants from his gray lair.

He tagged the host, he cursed the law,

He blamed the world for every flaw.

But outside walls of steel and shame,

The world moved on, forgot his name.

The old man drives

The old man drives the car like

a daredevil stuntman with a dire

need for speed, failing to heed

the rules of the road. He drives a Ford

before a horde of people, ready

for a farmer's market - goods and yummies -

as they get chummy with the ground,

dodging the Dodge Cherokee, driven

by the old man who fails to realize

he's not en route to the local buffet,

but barreling through a blocked-off street,

ignoring signs he couldn't see -

his vision blurred on the way

to the early bird special.

Civilians scatter, bare their bodies,

hoping for mercy from a man

driving without a care. Anyone lucky enough

to survive the wrath of this doddering dillard

thanks the heavens. He's too senile

to hit the brakes before sirens roar,

before the police arrive

to air their grievances,

citing him relentlessly, imploring

he take a test at the DMV

to verify if he's still fit to drive

like a young man.

His children - worried, worn -

pick him up, drag him there,

begging him to surrender the keys

before his license becomes a license to kill.

But he protests, insists he's fine,

driven by the pure desire

to drive again -

against reason,

against caution,

against the grain of logic,

mumbling irrational nothings

like a toad on an old road.

Still, he pushes forward,

wheezing to the wheel again.

The examiner - a veteran of geezers

too frail for fate -

sighs at the sight of another

car of doom approaching.

The old man fails his turns,

fails to see signs,

makes cuts - incisions -

into the integrity of the road test,

leaving behind a trail

of destruction and derision.

The examiner, dismayed,

derides him for his recklessness.

But then,

the old man pulls out a wad

of crispy bills - hush money.

The examiner, amused and bemused,

hollers: "You passed!"

and hands him his license.

And just like that,

the old man is back -

no tarry, no delay -

behind the wheel of misfortune.

He hits the highway,

a one-man wrecking crew,

a doorway to hell and back.

Wrong side, wrong lane,

cars veer, flee,

go on the lam to avoid

this senile terror.

Then -

a six-wheeler.

A thunderous end.

The car crumples.

The old man

is finally stopped.

His senile mind,

unaware to the end,

failed

to heed

the rules of the road.

The old man and the scammer

Old Man Johnson sat on his sofa,

Like a loaf of bread, enjoying the warm

Feeling of his home - one he bought

With just a penny, not a dime more.

He hummed softly, at peace at last,

Newfound joy in retirement cast,

After years in government halls,

Enduring duty through endless calls.

But then, his cell phone gave a ring,

A dreadful, buzzing, cursed thing.

He sighed and reached with weary grace,

Annoyance etched upon his face.

With calloused hand, he grabbed the phone,

Prepared to face the voice unknown.

He listened close, suspicion brewed -

A tone too slick, a speech too shrewd.

An accent thick, a tale rehearsed,

A foreign caller, well-reversed.

"Sir," he said, "you owe some tax.

We'll need Microsoft cards, in stacks."

"Gift cards?" Johnson said, bemused.

"Are you daft or just confused?"

The voice persisted, threats grew grim,

But Old Man Johnson wasn't dim.

This man, no fool, had skills to spare -

His past in service laid him bare

To tricks and traps, to cunning lies.

He'd seen the world through seasoned eyes.

A former spy, in covert ranks,

With friends in files and deeds in banks.

The caller didn't know the game

Was turning fast to end in shame.

"One moment, sir," the old man said,

"I must arrange the cards ahead."

The line stayed live, the bait was laid,

As Johnson's fingers quickly played.

He traced the signal, marked the source -

An eastern city, dense with force.

Smog and noise, and crowded streets,

Where scam and hustle often meet.

The scammer sat in some small room,

A den of wires, screens, and gloom.

Unaware the game had flipped,

His every move now tightly gripped.

Johnson called some friends from days

Of secret ops and shadowed ways.

"Old friend," he said, "I have a lead -

A pest, a fraud, a roach to weed."

And so began the careful plan,

To snare the wretch who dared to scan

For prey among the meek and kind -

A vulture of the foulest kind.

The caller kept on pushing lies,

Not seeing justice in disguise.

Till one dark night, amidst a scam,

A sack came down - wham, bam, blam!

He woke to pain and sterile gloom,

A single light across the room.

Before him stood an aged face,

Grim with calm, devoid of grace.

A wire hummed, a jumper sparked,

The old man spoke, his tone was dark:

"You owe a tax," he coldly said,

"And now it's pain you'll pay instead."

"Where are the cards? The codes? The rest?"

The scammer's heart thumped in his chest.

"The irony," the old man mused,

"To feel what victims felt - abused."

The scammer cried, he begged and pled,

But Johnson simply shook his head.

"No threats, no tricks, no false pretense.

Just consequence for your offense."

The cables sparked, the shadows danced,

The scammer's luck had long since chanced.

And somewhere far across the sea,

A thousand phones rang ceaselessly.

But one call less now plagues the land -

Thanks to the justice of Johnson's hand.

No medal pinned, no headlines told,

Just silence in the home of old.

Old Man Johnson sat once more,

His sofa soft, his peace restored.

No smugness sat upon his brow,

Just quiet calm and solemn vow:

He'd rest at last, no more deceit -

No buzzing phone, no scam to beat.

But if the call should come again,

He'd rise once more, that quiet man.

The old man makes his last strike

An old miner wakes to aches and moans,

To creaking joints and brittle bones.

A gentle hand upon him lays,

To soothe the pain of aging days.

It clasps his shoulder, soft and kind,

Relieving burdens long confined.

The weary muscles, stiff with strain,

Are comforted through years of pain.

He turns to see, with grateful eyes,

A face that's weathered, kind, and wise.

His wife, her features lined with care,

Still beautiful, still always there.

She smiles with joy and sadness, too,

For this day brings a fate they knew -

His final shift inside the mine,

Where ore and sweat and dreams align.

In that old village, deep with pride,

Where miners work and children bide,

To feed their young before they cry,

From famine's grip that draws them dry.

The fathers dig, the children grow,

While underground, the pickaxes glow.

As he once did for kin and wife,

To carve from stone a better life.

He eats the meal she gently made,

Their love, though old, would never fade.

Her eyes still gleam like silver veins,

That run through rock like ancient chains.

He saw those eyes in gold he found,

In sparkling gems beneath the ground.

Though age had marked her face with care,

He found the youthful beauty there.

The beauty that had sparked his fire,

That drove his hand through stone and mire.

And now she weeps for what's to come,

The silence of a voice gone numb.

Before he leaves, he holds them near -

His children, grandkids drawing near.

They gather close to see him go,

With tear-streaked cheeks and faces low.

Pickaxe in hand, he walks the trail,

Through morning mist and whispers pale.

The pathway lined with stones and names,

Of those who lost their final games.

Old friends now rest in tombs below,

Where silent flowers bloom and grow.

He nods to them, each one a ghost,

A memory held, a silent toast.

The other miners stop and stand,

They clasp his back with calloused hand.

With quiet awe, they step aside,

As down the shaft, he starts to stride.

The mine is dark, the air is thin,

He feels the weight of years within.

He finds a wall, a solid face,

And strikes it slow with steady grace.

The first blow rings - a distant chime,

It echoes back across the time.

To when his father swung with pride,

And worked all day with him beside.

The second strike recalls his youth,

His early days, his strength, his truth.

He mined with hope and burning will,

To pay his son's first college bill.

The final blow, a solemn note,

Recalls the words the doctor wrote:

The rot had found his aging lung,

And stole the breath from once-strong tongue.

But not before he swung once more,

Against the rock, his final chore.

The strike rang loud - a sudden sound,

Then water burst from deep underground.

It swallowed him with roaring might,

And snuffed his life like waning light.

Yet though he died beneath the stone,

He left this world with peace full-grown.

No regrets behind his eyes,

Just dreams fulfilled beneath the skies.

A miner's tale, so strong and deep -

Now he, like ore, is left to sleep.