He lived like a spark that refused to go out,
A whirlwind of laughter, of noise, and of shout.
Louder than life, louder than sense,
A walking storm with no self-defence.
He called himself Peter Pan, forever young in his ways,
Swearing he’d never grow up not even in old age.
But life played its joke, bold and unfair,
Giving him a full head of wild, coarse grey hair.
We teased him for years, called it “pube-hair,”
And he’d roar with laughter.
He loved a mirror more than any man alive,
Any window became a flexing exercise.
He’d pose at his reflection, checking arms, striking a pose.
Lift his shirt, judge his six pack, then give himself a dance.
Forever mid-transformation, forever in a pose,
As if every shop window was a bodybuilding show.
He was jammy too, the kind who broke rules with ease,
Living life on the edge like it was a breeze.
Doing things others wouldn’t dare to try,
Yet somehow slipping through every watchful eye.
Audacious and bold, skating past.
Forever pushing his luck and never getting caught (well rarely lol)
Saturdays meant cooking shows filling the room,
He’d binge-watch them all from morning till noon.
Then raid every cupboard, pots clattering around,
Creating “masterpieces” with soy sauce by the pound.
Pasta was his passion, a dish he made proud,
And leftovers boxed neatly for work.
He’d get the kids painting his nails like a king,
Loved any fuss, loved everything.
Slip them a few pounds for massages or more,
Lying back dramatically like royalty on the floor.
He shaved his chest hair, his back hair too,
Always roping someone in “Come on, help me, will you?”
Never any shame, never any fear,
Just Peter being Peter, year after year.
And Christmas Eve? He’d drink far too much,
Year after year he’d lose his touch.
Christmas Day sick, swearing, “Never again!”
But next Christmas Eve he’d do it again.
He never learned once in all his years,
But that was Peter chaos, laughter, and beers.
Strong as an ox when the gym caught his eye,
Then too tired from roofing, letting the diet slide by.
He grafted hard roofing, flooring, long shifts,
Dreaming of working for himself, making his own rules.
Hardworking but hopeless when money was due,
“Can you lend me twenty quid?” was his favourite cue.
Then minutes later “Actually, make it forty…”
A loveable disaster, messy, loud, naughty.
Fridays were sacred: Domino’s for the kids,
Or an Indian feast comfort-food bliss.
He loved his food, his rituals, with his kids.
Simple joys lived loudly, as only he knew.
And then there was Fluffy his girl, his mate,
Queen of his chaos, keeper of his fate.
A big softie with her curled up at night,
Calling, “Fluffy, come in gal!” into the light.
He drove us all mad, he drove us insane,
He made us laugh hard, he caused growing pains.
But under the madness, the fun, and the mess,
Was a heart full of love more than he’d ever confess.
He never grew up, and maybe that’s alright,
A wild-hearted spirit, a storm, a pain in the f*cking arse.
Forever our Peter Pan,
Forever our angel.