A centurion of sorts

Well here it is,
One hundred up,
But not in age, goals or runs,
Racing wins or anything physical,
But here on the page in black and white,
For all to see or ignore as they wish,
And who would have thought it of me?
No teacher, lecturer, peers or friends,
And I’m afraid, least of all me,
Never the sharpest tool in the box I fear,
But to do this and see the new me,
Is a wonder indeed,
A sandwich short of a picnic, maybe,
More practical than intellectual,
Great bards passed me by unnoticed,
Mr King was my English literature,
More autistic than artistic,
But to my name I have one hundred,
And a book in print,
And this is my centurion,
Not very deep,
A little introspective,
Just a statement of achievement,
And now how will they view me,
A new hat to wear with my many others, Another string to my bow,
Kept in secret for fear of ridicule,
So opposed to my brash cockney bravado,
As far apart as north and south,
But as close as love and hate,
And in my humility I thank those who played a part, From the creator of this world,
To people who I passed but never saw me,
For my muse’s where ever they be,
And the women who broke my heart,
And the ones I broke,
To people who carried me along in darker days, To those who pushed me down,
For whom without their touch on my existence, This point may never have come,
But most of all my babies,
Who believe I could shift heaven and earth, So once again thank you, Whoever you may be,
For this my centurion of sorts.

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