Wobblers (Fun Poem 176)

At one time you could see a lot of wobblers just after the pubs called time. Now the wobblers you see are the decrepit souls like me. I have joined the age of the walking stick brigade and have become a wobbler. When standing still too long my legs become jelly and I lose my balance. Whenever I wobble my only problem is when I stick my hand out to steady myself everything is smaller than me at six foot three and a half. I reach out and grab nothing but empty air and that does not hold up someone as tall as me. So I stand there and shrink wobbling to my knees. 19 October 2015