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Bloody Martin…………………………………………………………….:P 😛 😛 😛 😛 😛 😛 😛 😛 😛
Call him a “Legend” and a “Mentor” and it goes to his head :wave: :wave: :wave: :wave: :wave: :wave:
All those nasty things people said about him I’m sure they’ll now retract :stir: :stir: :stir: :stir:

He’s show he’s a big old softy ……………………………………………………….:twisted: 😈 😈 😈 😈 😈 😈
A SNAG …………………………………………………………………………:lol: 😆 😆 😆 😆 😆 😆 😆 😆 😆
Might come to Sibson and beat out of him “The living crap” :duck: :duck: :duck: :duck: :duck:

Have an epitaph already…………………………………………………..8O 😯 😯 😯 😯 😯 😯 😯 😯 😯

MARTIN
When I am tired of earnest men,
Intense and keen and sharp and clever,
Pursuing fame with tool or pen
Or counting washing machine drums forever,

Then from the halls of UKWhitegoodsland
Beyond the trackless purple sea
Old Martin’s ghost comes back to stand
Beside my desk and talk to me.

Still on his delicate pale face
A quizzical thin smile is showing,
His cheeks are wrinkled like fine lace,
His kind blue eyes are happy and glowing.

He wears a brilliant-hued cravat,
A suit to match his soft grey hair,
A rakish stick, a knowing hat,
A manner blithe and debonair.

How good that he who always knew
That being him was a duty,
Should have gold halls to wander through
And should himself inhabit beauty.

How like his old unselfish way
To leave these forums of splendid mirth
And comfort those condemned to stay
Upon the dull and sombre red earth.

Some people ask: “What cruel chance
Made Martin’s life so sad a story?”
Martin? Why, he exhaled romance,
And wore an overcoat of glory.

A fleck of sunlight in the street,
A horse, a book, a girl who smiled,
Such visions made each moment sweet
For this receptive ancient child.

Because it was old Martin’s lot
To be, not make, a decoration,
Shall we then scorn him, having not
His genius of appreciation?

Rich joy and love he got and gave;
His heart was merry as his dress;
Pile laurel wreaths upon his grave
Who did not gain, but was, success!