I have a friend.
His name is Mac.
(Well, not really, but that's what everyone calls him.)
He hates for wooden cigar boxes
to be broken up for kindling.
So he rescues them and
gives them to little children.
For-to hold their treasures.
He nursed his cat Blackjack back to health
after a raccoon attack.
He's a writer.
His dad wrote, too:
during WWI. In the trenches.
Mac isn't feeling so well.
He didn't get out of bed, tonight.
Even for music.
Even for babies.
Everyone who knows him is worried
(including her).
Because everyone who knows him, loves him.
To pieces.
He's the kind of guy who's apt to say something like
"whipper-snapper."
And make it sound just right.
Please pray for him.
(I really, really love him.)
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