Drift

At 44, I snore late.

I’m half eighty-eight.

I might be a door weight. 

I know how to bore, mate.

Awake

Amidst the dark and dead of night,

A thin red line ignites the sight.

It rises hot with hope and brings

Awakened day, and rising, sings.

Without doubt

 Dave without doubt

You are doubly stout

And tripley rare

With quadruplet care.